Hide.
Run. Breathe. Hide. Repeat.
That's all young Roger Higgins had been doing lately.
First of all, who would name their child Roger? That's a sure way to make a kid suffer. Second of all, who has a child with someone who's an ex-convict with a violent past. Third, who leaves their only son with the very person who killed them.
Lily Ann Ambrose hadn't been the smartest, but she had loved her son with all her heart. He knew that now after she had died, thanks to that horror of a father he had grown up under. He had killed her in a drunken rage, much like how he had beaten Roger every night of his life.
It happened last night. Roger's been on the run since, wanting to get as far away from his father as he could. He didn't think that his father had noticed that Roger was standing in the doorway and watched his mother die. Roger took off like a shot out of the apartment, leaving his mother's killer in the dust. He had passed police cars that were flying in the other direction. One of his neighbors must have heard the gunshot. Hopefully his father would be to inebriated to run.
Before Roger knew it he had traveled farther than he had even gone before. Those races he had participated in at the park gave him a lot more speed than what he had realized. Roger skidded to a stop and pulled a cigar out of his pocket. He popped it into this mouth, letting it calm him down.
Roger's grandfather gave him his first cigar two years ago when he was five years old.
"I've never lit one, son," his grandfather told him, "not once in seventy-three years."
"Why do you still have them though, grandpa?" Roger asked blandly, trying to ignore his parents' argument in the other room.
"It calms me down."
Here, his grandfather handed Roger a cigar of his own. Roger took it carefully and turned it in his small hands.
"Now, Roger," his grandfather began, "life ain't going to be easy." He glanced pointedly towards the yelling next door. "Promise me that you'll never light one, even during the hardest time."
"I promise with all my heart."
Roger's grandfather smiled tenderly at his grandson's innocence.
Roger loved his grandfather more than anything, but he was gone the following winter. Everyone was gone now.
Summer in the city is not something to take lightly. Roger really should have thought things over like where he was going to live or what he would eat. He had gone through half of his cigar pack in one day. He had always been a nervous kid, but this was something else.
Roger was starting to get hungry. A boy's gotta eat, you know? Suddenly, the smell of fresh bread filled the air. Roger turned to his left and spotted a few loaves sitting on a windowsill. There was an older lady inside, rolling out dough on a countertop. She glanced up and noticed Roger staring hungrily at the bread.
"Well, come on then. You can't eat it from over there!" she exclaimed, waving Roger towards her.
"I don't have any money, ma'am."
"That's all right! It's going to be cold if you don't hurry up."
Roger ran to the window and choose a loaf. He carefully broke off a piece and tossed it in his mouth. It practically melted on his tongue. A sigh escaped his lips as did a smile. "Thank you. It's delicious."
The lady inside gave Roger a smile while she wiped the dough off her hands. She walked closer to the window. "If you ever need something to eat, there will always be something here for you. We give bread to all of the newsboys."
"Newsboys?"
"Aren't you one?"
Roger shook his head. "No, I'm just me."
The woman laughed. "Well, head on down the street if you would like to be one. You're a fast little bugger. I've seen you running around here lately. The Manhattan newsboys could use someone like you, a little racer on New York's racetrack, and you could afford more than bread."
Roger stood and pondered for a moment. Little seven-year-old Roger could be earning money all by himself? He quickly swallowed his bread and stuffed the remainder of the loaf into his jacket. He nodded to the woman and sped off down the street.
The brownstone wasn't hard to decipher as the newsboy lodgehouse. It was rundown and falling apart, the result of hundreds of young boys. Roger pulled the last of his cigars from his pocket and placed in his mouth. He sauntered up the stairs and pushed open the doors. The front room was mostly empty other than a boy around Roger's age and one a few years older sitting atop a desk. The pair looked like brothers with the same dark hair. They looked up at Roger's loud entrance.
"I'd like to be a newsboy," Roger announced proudly, "if that's okay."
The youngest of the two boys hopped off the desk, walked over, and stuck out his hand. "Welcome to the family! My name's Jack. What's yours?"
Roger froze. Did he really want to be known as Roger to all these boys? He had already been teased by the kids on his street.
So, Roger Higgins was disappearing for good.
"The name's Race, Race Higgins, and I'm glad to be a part of the newsies of New York!"