Lunch Money was suddenly acutely aware of three things. One, the sole of her foot was in agony. Two, the rain was pouring harder than ever. And three, Spot Conlon was standing over her. She slowly sat up, checking herself for injuries and hastily re-buttoning her shirt. She wasn't too badly hurt—her wrist was bruised where one of the thugs grabbed her, and she had a couple of scrapes and scratches, but what worried her was her foot. Whatever she had stepped on when she'd tried to make a break for it was killing her. Spot glanced back to the opening of the alley, where he had last seen the men scamper away. They were indeed gone. Scared off by the king of Brooklyn.

"Those bums oughta loirn there's easieh ways a' getting undah a goil's skirt."

"I ain't wearin' a skirt." Lunch Money pointed out sullenly.

"Well, that does present a challenge." Spot offered her a hand to help her up, but Lunch Money blatantly ignored it, struggling to her feet by herself. Spot raised both eyebrows, but took the insult in stride.

"Ya awight?"

"I'm fine. And I don't need you to rescue me." She snapped, lying through her teeth. She knew if Spot hadn't come along, she'd have been raped or murdered by now.

"You're welcome." Spot retorted sardonically.

Lunch Money ignored him and put a bit of weight on her injured foot. It hurt like hell, but she needed to get back to her friends. She tried to take a step, only gasp in pain as her leg buckled underneath her. She fell hard into a deceptively deep puddle that was overflowing the cracks in the cobblestones.

"Sit down, you stupid goil." Spot ordered, annoyed, "Lemme see. It's your left foot ya can't walk on?" He didn't wait for an answer, but knelt down on the ground next to Lunch Money. She sulked inwardly as Spot examined her foot. It was difficult to see in the dark and gloom, but Spot managed find the source of the injury.

"Ow!" Lunch Money cried, jerking her foot out of Spot's grasp. The foot made contact with Spot's chin and he swore furiously, rubbing the new bruise Lunch Money had created.

"What the hell was that for?" he demanded, "Look, ya got this huge piece a' glass wedged through the bottom a' your foot."

"Well take it out!"

"I would, except that if I try that, you'll just start bleedin' all ovah the street; ya need bandages and shit before ya can take it out. And I know I'm gonna get kicked again if I'se gets anywhere neah ya." Spot shrugged, wiping the rain out of his eyes. Lunch Money bit her lip, partially out of pain, partially out of anxiety. She was in so much trouble. She couldn't walk, the rain had completely saturated her clothing and soaked her to the skin, Racetrack and the others were probably worried out of their minds, and (worst of all) she was now indebted to Spot Conlon.

Spot stood up, looking around the alley. "Where ya stayin'?"

"Othah side a' town. 86th street." Lunch Money muttered.

"You'se gonna need help getting' back." Spot stated, shivering slightly in the rain.

"Nah, I can get back meself."

"That wasn't a question. You do too need help." Spot sounded impatient. Was this girl always so difficult about everything?

"I thought you weren't going to help any a' us if we got into trouble." Lunch Money accused him, mockingly. To this, Spot said nothing, for a moment. It was true; he had told Jack that he wouldn't help any of his gang if they tried selling in his territory. He shouldn't go back on a promise like that. Spot wasn't altogether sure why Lunch Money was bringing this up now, in her hour of need. You'd think she'd be relieved that someone was offering to help her.

"I ain't gonna help ya. Consider this a disservice. Now, come on." Without further ado, Spot forced Lunch Money to her feet, pulling one of her arms around his shoulders. He positioned one of his arms around her waist to support her, making himself Lunch Money's human crutch.

"Okay, I'se got ya. Keep your weight off a' your bad foot. Walk." He instructed in a commanding tone.

"No! I can walk meself! Let me go!" Lunch Money protested. Spot sighed. Talking to this girl was like trying to reason with a two-year-old.

"Quit your bitchin' and walk." He said through gritted teeth, "I haven't got all night."

And so, grudgingly, Lunch Money took a tentative step with her right foot, leaning heavily on Spot to prop herself up. With a great effort, she hopped forward again, using the same foot. She winced with every hop; every action jarred her injured foot painfully. But they needed to keep moving. In this jerking, hopping manner, the two newsies hobbled out of the alley, into the damp streets of Brooklyn.

It was getting so late that it was becoming early. Midnight must have passed long ago, and they were still wandering through Brooklyn, both out of breath from the sheer effort of keeping Lunch Money on her feet. The rain hadn't relented, thus they greatly resembled drowned rats and were trembling in the cold. They were probably halfway to the alley on 86th where Jack, Racetrack and the others were sleeping (or, more likely, waiting and worrying about Lunch Money) when Spot stopped.

"We ain't gonna get ta 86th tonight." Spot told her, steering her off to the side of the street, into yet another alley, "We oughta wait here for daylight. It's dangerous to walk around Brooklyn at night. As I hope ya loirned by now." He added coldly. Lunch Money allowed Spot to lead her into the alley, where they both took a load off their aching feet, annoyed at his superior tone.

"Whaddya mean we ain't gettin' ta 86th tonight?" Lunch Money sulked as she carefully took a seat on the foul alley pavement. "They'se gonna murdeh me fa' stayin' out all night."

"Jack's a big boy, he'll get ovah it." Spot said unsympathetically.

"Jack ain't the one I'm worried about."

"Oh right." Spot smirked, "Ya big brudder ain't gonna be too pleased wit' ya, is he?"

"Don't know what you sound so smug about, Conlon," She glared in his direction, "This is all your fault anyway."

"My fault? Higgins, how is any of this my fault?" This girl was unbelievable. He saves her life, and now she insists everything was all his fault in the first place?

"I wouldn't be livin' on the streets if you'd just let us sell in your damn 'territory'." She spat angrily.

"I ain't forcin' ya ta stay heah." Spot argued, "Why don'tcha go back home and loirn to sew or cook like a normal goil?"

"I ain't nevah gonna—" Lunch Money began indignantly, but Spot cut her off.

"Look goilie, I'm gonna save ya some time: I don't care about what you have ta say." He rolled his eyes in a martyred expression, "Do ya gotta argue about everything damn little thing? Just stop talking."

Lunch Money pursed her lips, but remained silent. If her foot hadn't been giving her so much grief, she would have tried to kill Spot by now. They both were fuming, sitting poker-stiff against a grimy brick wall, their arms folded and their mouths shut. Only the pattering of the rain on the pavement broke the obstinate silence. They were both too deep in thought to bother speaking to each other again. No good had ever come of any of their conversations anyway.

Lunch Money's musings slid in and out of focus as she started to doze against the hard, uncomfortable wall. Racetrack was going to murder her when he found out all that happened… how on Earth had she been so stupid? Out after dark, all alone. Racetrack would be giving her the older brother lecture from hell tomorrow. She could hear him now: You just run off in the middle of the night! In Brooklyn of all places! Do ya have any idea how lucky ya are that Spot came along when he did? Lunch Money closed her eyes, trying to block the imagined conversation out of her head.

Spot had been keeping a watchful eye on the entrance of the alley, and hadn't even noticed that Lunch Money had nodded off to sleep. It therefore came as a slight surprise to him when Lunch Money's head dropped onto his shoulder. Spot glanced down at her sleeping figure. What was he supposed to do now? Lunch Money shivered violently in the cold. Hesitantly, as if scared to touch her anymore than absolutely necessary, Spot wrapped his arms around her shoulders in an attempt to keep her warm. His reservations multiplied as Lunch Money stopped shuddering from the cold and shifted in her slumber, now sleeping comfortably against his chest.

Despite the lateness of the hour, he seemed unable to switch off his brain and fall asleep. Too many uncertainties and questions circled his head. Spot couldn't stand Lunch Money, and the feeling was obviously mutual. So why had he even stopped to help her? Why was he escorting her back to her friends? Why was he doing any of this for her? In his heart of hearts, an answer to these questions surfaced briefly, but his brain silenced the notion before the thought could fully form. He hadn't become the respected leader of Brooklyn by acknowledging his vulnerabilities. He was Spot Conlon; he had no vulnerabilities.

Spot relaxed ever so slightly, but still refused to give into the drowsy feeling that had suddenly overtaken him. The leader of Brooklyn sat, the sleeping girl enveloped in his arms while he spent the rest of the night awake and alert. And every so often, Spot would spare a glance at her; his eyes filled with an emotion that no one had ever seen Spot Conlon express. An expression that looked very much like fear.