September 22, 1899, 6:00 A.M.
Manhattan

"Up, up, up, up!! No time ta waste! No one's payin' ya ta lie in bed all day!"

            At Kloppman's brutal tirade, Secret popped up like a jack-in-the-box, fully awake and fully horrified.

            Please tell me dat was a dream. Please, please tell me dat I din't really do sometin' so hopelessly an' completely idiotic...

            Then she looked down at herself and realized that she was still wearing her wrumpled blue dress, having never changed back into her nightgown after arriving home last night.

            Da**.

            Meanwhile, Kloppman was busy with some of the more reluctant risers. Jack was muttering incoherently, Skittery protesting despite the old man's light smacks. And Flick, of course, hadn't so much as stirred. Noting this, Secret glanced at Race's bunk; sure enough, he was still frantically searching for his cigar. Most likely, Snipeshooter had stolen it again, and a fight would ensue. While Racetrack didn't have much of a temper, his first cigar of the day was the equivalent of most people's morning coffee.

            "Ya gonna let poor Flick be late again 'cause ya can't get yer precious smoke?" Secret demanded, before hurrying to the washroom so as to claim it before any of the boys.

            Shooting Snipeshooter a murderous look (Snipes responded with a smart-aleck grin and a wave of the half-smoked cigar), Race reluctantly hauled himself up the ladder to Flick's bunk.

"Da presses are rollin', sunshine," he informed the slumbering newsgirl, tugging on a red lock that had flopped across her face.

            The answer consisted of a mournful groan, a halfhearted swipe, and the words, "If I heah one moah poyson call me 'sunshine' dis week, deyre gonna die." Satisfied that she was awake, Race hopped to the floor to face Kid Blink, whose ever-present grin was in place.

            "'Memba when she useta deck ya ev'ry mornin' fer doin' dat?"

            "Ah, da good old days," Race replied sarcastically, immediately turning to charge at Snipeshooter, only to have Blink restrain him. Snipes made a quick exit, and Race, shaking his head in disgust, followed Blink to the washroom door, where they joined Mush in waiting for Secret to emerge.

            For some reason, despite the tribulations of the previous night, everyone seemed to be unusually chipper this morning. Well, almost everyone. On the way to the distribution center, Race and Flick chattered ceaselessly about the race they were planning to attend that night. They argued so loudly and heatedly about which horse to bet on, that anyone who hadn't known them as well as their fellow Manhattan newsies did would have assumed they really were furious with each other. Meanwhile, Mush was raving with equal passion about his girl, ignoring the fact that Blink was teasing him mercilessly instead of listening politely. It all ended in Race pulling out his pocket watch to check the time, Flick grabbing it and taking off through the crowd, and all three of the boys ganging up on her to reclaim it.

            "D'ya rememba," Jack asked, turning to David, who had joined up with the lodging-house newsies on Broome Street, "when we only had t'ree Musketeers?"

            "I think I remember," Dave laughed, watching the antics around him affectionately. "But now it seems like there have always been five."

            Except the fifth Musketeer was refraining from Musketeer-like behavior on this particular morning. Secret was hanging back, trailing behind all the others. So far, no one had taken notice of her wrumpled dress, or, more significantly, the distant, troubled look in her eyes. Even her four best friends hadn't caught on yet; being the quietest and most reserved member of the little gang, they were used to her sitting out many of their more boisterous activities: rowdy games, chases, and mock-fights. Therefore, her doing so on this occasion gave them no cause for worry.

Only Flick had noticed anything slightly "off" about Secret, something not quite right; in the way she moved, the way her eyes darted cautiously from side to side, and the way she seemed sort of faded, not quite connecting with her surroundings. I oughta find out about it...but what can I do? Ask 'er? That was a joke. Getting information out of Secret was like pulling teeth. Teeth that were cemented in place. Ah well...she's Secret. God knows dat goil can take care o' ha'self. An' if fer some reason she can't, she'll tell me. She's got enough sense ta know when she's in oveh her head. Still, Flick couldn't resist an anxious glance toward the back of the crowd. Still...I wish I could figuah out what it's got ta do wit Brooklyn.

            "How many?"

            Flick jumped; she'd been so absorbed in her thoughts that she hadn't even noticed when she joined the line at the distribution center, nor when each of the newsies in front of her bought his papes.

            "Forty," she replied, slapping down two dimes in front of Mr. Trotwood. The old man raised his eyebrows, smiling teasingly.

            "Sellin' been bad lately?"

            Flick mock-glared in reply. "Fer yer infamation, Trout, I'se got a race ta go to t'night. I wouldn't wanna risk not bein' sold out in time, since a friend o' mine has got a hot tip an' all..." Even Flick couldn't manage to keep her glare in place at those words; it dissolved into a snicker.

            "Hey!" called an indignant voice from the ground, its source hidden behind a newspaper. "It happens ta be from a very reliable source dis time!"

            Glancing dismissively in the direction of the voice, Flick turned back to Trout. "He pay fer 'is papes dis mornin'?"

            Mr. Trotwood grimaced. "Nope...said Apollo had a stone in 'is hoof at the last race...but apparently he's gonna pay me back for all the papes I've spotted him, after New Moon wins t'night..."

            This was met with raucous laughter from Flick, as well as Mush and Blink, who had flocked behind her with their bundles of papers. The redhead turned and knelt on the ground, batting aside the newspaper to reveal a small red-faced Italian.

            "My point," she declared archly, "is made."

            At that point, Secret joined the group, having just bought her papes, and the five partners took off down the street for another morning of selling. Four of them were still teasing and fooling around. The silence of the fifth once again went unnoticed.

            Finally, a few streets away from the distribution center, Secret spoke up for the first time that morning.

            "Y'know, guys, while jokes an' games can be a real barrel o' laughs an' all dat, sellin' a few papes now an' den wouldn't hoit."

            Race and Flick exchanged relieved smiles; whatever was wrong with Secret, it seemed to have damaged neither her logic nor her sarcasm.

            "A'right," Blink agreed amiably enough, "let's see what dey've got fer us t'day."

            He took advantage of a nearby tree as a leaning post, and casually opened his paper, the others watching him expectantly. Blink took one look at the front page and groaned.

            "What?" Mush's eyes widened. "Not Queens again?"

            "Da one an' only," Blink replied grimly. "Geez, ya'd t'ink afta a month, at least..."

            "It's tough ta recoveh from gettin' soaked dat bad," Secret observed with an acid glance at Flick, who flared.

            "'Scuse me, but in case youse f'gotten, da reason I soaked da Queens newsies was dat you were all busy bein' beaten ta bloody pulps--"

            "No one's blamin' ya fer winnin' da fight, Flick," Race quickly assured her.

            "Yeah, Queens jist happens ta be real lousy at reorganizin'," Blink added, smirking. "Dis long an' dey still ain't got a new leadeh."

            "Jist how many newsies left afta dat fight?" Race wondered.

            "Don't know any exact numbas," Blink replied, "but a whole lot, I hoid. Crow an' 'is gang all split up, goin' off ta diff'rent boroughs wheah dey hoped da sellin'...an' da fightas...was betta den Queens."

            "An' da ones dat are left 'ave been squabblin' oveh da position eveh since," Race finished grimly. "Mind ya, all dose pickpockets ain't helpin' any."

            "How many in dis edition?" Flick demanded.

            "Six," Mush answered promptly, flipping through one of his own papes. "An' dat's jist da scabs, o' course, da big shots dat reported it ta da bulls. Da grapevine says da newsies an' fact'ry kids've been gettin' hit twice as hard. Da Queens boys are jist in complete crisis mode."

            "'Scuse me."

            After her extensive silence, Secret's statement caused her four friends to jump. She snickered at this reaction. "Sorry ta startle youse...I was jist wonderin' if we was gonna discuss da headlines all mornin', or actually go out an' hawk 'em. An' keep in mind dat only one o' dose choices involves profit."

            "Ya can always count on Secret," Flick remarked proudly. "C'mon, kids, let's listen ta our voice o' reason."

            Flick's use of the term "kids" was disregarded even by Mush and Blink, who had two years on her, out of respect for her fighting ability. The boys simply obeyed the girls meekly, and the five took off down the street, hawking outrageous headlines that made it sound as if all of Queens had been massacred since the previous evening's edition.

"So den I decided ta open da window, an' let 'im heah jist how many people was out dere shoutin' at 'im. An' right away he cova'd 'is eahs an' started beggin' me ta close it. 'Shut da window! Shut da window!' Youse all shoulda hoid 'im...da mighty Pulitzah, beggin' fer moicy!"

            "E'zactly how many times has 'e told dis story, jist since me an' Secret joined?" Flick wondered aloud.

            "Fourteen," was the prompt reply from Skittery.

            "And a half," Dave modified, smiling. "There was the time he got interrupted when my sister showed up at Tibby's to surprise him."

            "Yeah," Snaps agreed thoughtfully, "I seem ta recall he din't do much tawkin' afta dat...too busy takin' Sarah outside fer a 'breath o' fresh air'..."

            "Since when has ev'ry lunch toined into a game o' Tortua-da-leadeh?" Jack demanded, grinning tolerantly at the laughing boys around him and saving a glare for Flick.

            "Since dis lady started comin' ta Tibby's," Race replied, grinning and throwing an arm around Flick.

            "Lady, is it?" Blink eyed Flick incredulously. Her response was to smack him...rather harder than she was normally accustomed to hitting her friends, but no one noticed this except Blink.

            "I was merely pointin' out," the redhead informed the table at large, "dat, seein' as most o' us has already memorized ev'ry detail o' da strike, dere might be interest in some odda topic fer a change."

            "Yeah?" Cowboy snapped, furious at this sacrilege against his moment of glory. "Well, what topic would you suggest, Flick?"

            Flick smiled sweetly at the table full of newsies. "How was da sellin' dis mornin'?"

            She was answered with complete silence. Thirty-three pairs of eyes stared incredulously at her...thirty-two pairs of eyebrows raised. Flick raised hers right back.

            "What? Loaded question?"

            "No," Bumlets explained. "Dat's da problem. It's much too innocent a question fer you. We's waitin' ta find out da devious motive behind it."

            At this, Flick assumed an expression that served as a laughably poor imitation of hurt. "Aw, Bums, I can't believe ya'd say such a t'ing...an' us bein' such good pals...an' you havin' sold five extra papes dis mornin'...I really t'ink ya oughta make it up ta me...spot me sometin' fer da race t'night?"

            Groans echoed off the walls of the small restaurant.

            "We shoulda known when dey showed up wit Race dat one o' dem would toin out ta be as bad as him," mourned Blink.
            "Hey, it ain't like I brought 'em back on poipose!" Race reminded his friend indignantly. "Anyway, it was Flick's idea ta go ta dat race in August...ain't my fault she got obsessed..."
            "A-hem."
            At this impatient signal, everyone immediately turned toward Flick; ignoring the dragon was unwise.

            "In case youse all f'got, I did ask fer a loan a minute ago..." She smiled her sweetest smile, which was about as angelic as a demon's, as harmless as...well, a dragon's.

            These words were followed by a nervous pause, before Pie Eater rolled his eyes and plunged a hand into his pocket, muttering, "I don't even need ta say how much I'se gonna regret dis..."

            "I love ya, Pie," Flick remarked happily, plucking a couple coins from his hand. The statement was answered by incredulous snorts from Pie Eater and, quite randomly, Racetrack.

            "Well, now dat we got dat all woiked out," Jack spoke up sarcastically, "I got a question fer all o' youse. Can anyone afford ta skip de evenin' edition t'day?"

            The newsies exchanged puzzled glances, a few answering with nods or shakes of the head, most with shrugs. "Why?" Blink asked curiously.

            "'Cause," Cowboy replied, raising his eyebrows, "we got an invitation ta Brooklyn."

            A sudden fit of coughs erupted from the corner. Secret seemed to be choking on a piece of knockwurst. Mush turned to her in alarm.

            "Ya okay?" Without waiting for an answer, he gave her a helpful pound on the back that nearly sent the small girl flying out of her chair.

            Once she'd managed to regain her rightful seating position, cough into her napkin several times, and wipe a sleeve across her watery eyes, Secret turned a very sarcastic face on Mush.

            "T'anks, dat was real helpful...jist t'ink o' lettin' me know next time ya try ta kill me; I could say my goodbyes an' ev'rytin'..."

            Mush blushed furiously, but Secret barely allowed herself a second for guilt before whirling toward Jack, and manufacturing a rather pathetic excuse for a casual smile. "Ya were sayin'?"

            Jack's eyebrows rose, if possible, even higher, and Secret could feel Flick's shrewd eyes on her; but to her relief, no one commented. After a moment, Jack resumed his explanation.

            "Seems like Spot's been invitin' a lot o' newsies ta Brooklyn lately...tryin' ta keep on good toims wit all da boroughs, I guess. 'Cept Queens, o' course, dat'd be kinda pointless dese days." The corner of his mouth quirked. "I hoid dere was a big pokah game a couple nights back, an' sometin' goin' on las' night, too..."

            "Like a wild party dat went past one in da mornin'?"

As a sea of eyes swiveled toward her, Secret wondered what in God's name had possessed her to say that.

            "Okay..." Cowboy stated blankly. "So now we's got a psychic among us?"

            "Ya feelin' a'right, Secret?" Blink asked with real concern in his voice. "Yer actin' real strange. Ya wanna go back ta da lodgin' house an' rest or sometin'?"

            "No, I'se fine!" Secret glared defiantly into the sea of eyes, then quickly tried to replace the glare with an expression of serene innocence. "It was jist a guess, is all..."

            Jack blinked. "Okay...well, it was a real accurate guess..." Reluctantly, he resumed his previous thought. "So, who's comin'?"

            Nervous glances flashed around the table. Refusing an invitation from Spot Conlon...well, you just didn't do it. But many of the Manhattan boys had still never been to Brooklyn, even since it became their strongest ally after the strike. Others, such as Boots, had been only once or twice, and those occasions had left a lasting impression.

            The first to volunteer were Mush and Blink, who had visited the borough many times, and regarded Spot as a sixteen-year-old newsie leader, not some kind of dreaded monster from horror stories. Eventually, acceptances were also procured from Skittery, Itey, and Bumlets. David had already agreed to come. That made seven boys, a good-sized visiting party.

Several minutes passed. The newsies finished eating amid their usual chitchat and gossip, and, in ones and twos and small groups, left the table and headed out of the restaurant. Only Jack, David, Flick, and the Musketeers remained when Secret spoke quite abruptly, interrupting several miniature conversations. She said three words that would trigger more changes and chain reactions than she could have possibly imagined at the time.

            "I'll come too."

            Since the statement came out of nowhere, it took everyone a few seconds to figure out what she was talking about. When they did, there was a five-way chorus of, "No ya won't!" Even Dave looked dubious.

            "Um, Secret...have you by any chance forgotten what you did last time we went to Brooklyn?"

            With difficulty, Secret suppressed a sarcastic reply, which would have run something along the lines of, Shoah, Davey, I'se f'gotten all 'bout it. Dat's why it haunts my ev'ry wakin' moment. Instead she asked, "Ya really t'ink Spot's still mad 'bout dat?"

            All six of the other newsies present exchanged rolled eyes.

            "Secret," Flick reminded her friend patiently. "Dis's Spot Conlon. He holds grudges till doomsday. He's still got it in fer me fer sometin' I din't even do!"

            "I know ya like Brooklyn, Secret," Mush added sympathetically, "but Flick's right. If two yeahs wasn't enough time ta cool 'is tempa as far as she's concoined, I doubt a month is enough fer 'im ta f'give ya fer pushin' 'im in da rivah."

             "Am I neveh gonna heah de end o' dat?" the girl groaned in exasperation. Meanwhile, another part of her mine was screaming, Am I neveh gonna regain my sanity!? T'ank God dere's no way dey'll let me go ta Brooklyn, 'cause it seems dis alta ego o' mine is suicidal on top o' ev'rytin' else. When did I even develop an alta ego!?

            Stupid question. She knew when.

            "Ya may as well accept it." It was Race who was speaking now, and Secret was starting to regret those scolding sessions she'd been organizing for Flick; the tables had apparently turned. "Yer among da banished now," Race was saying, "jist like Flick an' me."

            By now, Secret was so frustrated, with herself and with her friends, that Racetrack's words didn't even really register. All she could see in her mind, clear as day, was that blasted face. All she could think, despite every desperate effort to quell such thoughts, was how close she was to being able to see it again.

            "I'se still got Mulberry's clothes," she suggested hopefully, getting desperate.
            "We can take 'em back ta her," Blink volunteered.

            "Quit tryin' ta t'ink up excuses," Jack advised. "Ya know poifectly well ya can't..." But his voice trailed off, and to everyone's surprise, he let out what sounded suspiciously like a sigh of resignation.

            "What?" Mush asked uneasily. "Ya ain't actually gonna let 'er go, are ya? Ya know Spot'll kill 'er..."

            "Well, dat's da t'ing." Jack bit his lip and turned to Secret. "A'right. If ya really wanna go dat much, ya may as well know. I din't wanna tell ya, 'cause I din't t'ink it was da kinda t'ing ya'd wanna heah...but apparently I judged wrong, so..." He shrugged offhandly. "Spot kinda requested dat ya come."

            Time ground to a halt. Secret gaped.

            "He...he what!?"

            In an instant, she was being sucked into a whirlpool of emotion, drowning in a funnel of amazement, confusion, elation, anger, and terror.

            But she wasn't the one known for strong reactions.

            "Ya...but...he...he..." Flick stuttered in horror. "He can't o'...ya mean..." Finally, she managed to get her point across in one short, lucid sentence. "Ya ain't goin'!"

            On this point, however, if on no other, Secret was certain.

            "Yeah, I am."

            "No, ya ain't!  Ya have no idea what 'e wants ya fer, an' it's nuttin' good, I'll promise ya dat. If ya went an' ya jist got soaked, I'd consida ya lucky. Dis...dis's..." Flick rattled off a few adjectives that most girls her age had never even heard, and followed them with, "...Spot Conlon, fer cryin' out loud."

            As Flick finished her speech, Secret blanched. Her eyes flashed even brighter than usual. And when she responded, her voice was ice.

            "Oh, c'mon, Flick!  Ya don't hafta be so jealous an' bitta jist 'cause Spot wants ta see me, an' you toined 'im off two yeahs ago wit ya da** tempa."

Secret's mouth...the mouth that those words had just left...dropped open. Slowly, her hand crept up to cover it, as if to make sure it was really her own.

            Flick gasped.

            In a transformation that any who knew Flick had witnessed at some point, the blood drained from the rest of her face and rushed to her cheeks, turning them into flames. Her eyes, a pleasantly soft blue minutes before, deepened a whole range of shades. She was on her feet in a moment...and, for the space of about half a second, something came very close to happening that had never happened before.

            Flick pulled her hand back a millimeter away from slapping Secret across the face.

            Instead, she turned on her heel and started to stalk past the table. When she reached Racetrack's chair, she grabbed his hand and dragged him out of it as an afterthought, then kept right on walking. Race gulped and glanced back at the others with an apologetic shrug before he and Flick vanished out the door.

No one said anything. For an indefinite stretch of time, Secret's now tear-filled eyes stared back at the four wide pairs that were regarding her as if she'd become a complete stranger. Finally, she too rose and left the restaurant.

            Secret, however, didn't have Flick's reputation for being extremely dangerous when angry. All four remaining boys went after her.

"She din't mean it, y'know."

            Race made this feeble attempt at comforting Flick while the two of them made their way down the street, apparently toward Central Park. Flick still hadn't let go of his hand, though this didn't particularly bother him; at least she wasn't practically snapping it off, as she had done on one occasion.

            "Yeah? Den what da he** did she mean?"

            She don't even sound mad anymoah, Race observed. Jist da woids...not 'er voice. She was real mad at foist, but now it seems like she's moah...well, hoit.

            Which made sense, of course; who wouldn't be hurt after her best friend said something like that to her?

            What's more, this wasn't just any best friend...it was Secret. Secret, who had never said anything so harsh to Flick before. Who, as far as Race knew, had never said anything truly harsh to anyone before.

            Secret, who had always been known as...quiet and sensible?

            "I jist can't believe she'd...I...got no idea wheah dat came from. I mean, shoah, she's been actin' kinda strange lately, but..."

            They were still walking, and Flick was presumably talking to Race, but she wasn't looking at him. He was growing rather concerned about the state she was in. "It was stupid, anyway, what she said," he pointed out. "I mean, dat yer jealous o' her 'cause Spot wants ta see 'er."

            Flick said nothing.

            "What?" Race glanced curiously at her, but her face was still turned away. His hand went to his pocket for a cigar, as it automatically did whenever he was nervous. He shrugged very casually. "Unless, o' course, it's true--"

            "Race!"  

            Okay, that had done the trick; she definitely wasn't indifferent anymore. She dropped his hand and spun toward him with a ferocious glare. [Really random author's note: At first I accidentally typed 'a ferocious flare'...and it made me laugh a lot :-D]

            "Ya idiot! Ya scab! Dat's sick, ya know dat? Dat is seriously, deeply, horribly sick. I hate dat kid...hate 'im...hate 'im...hate 'im...dat blasted liddle liah's moah full o' himself den Cowboy..."

            Race arched an eyebrow. She really did have to hate Spot, if she considered him worse than Jack. "A'right, a'right, ya do realize I was kiddin'--"

            Flick didn't even seem to hear him. After bringing Cowboy's name into her rant, she could hardly let it go without stringing on a few insults. "Not dat Kelly's much betta, mind ya, he neveh shoulda told Secret dat Spot wanted 'er ta come t'night...God, I can't believe he's lettin' 'er go...you was right, Race, it's as bad as us showin' our faces in Brooklyn..."

            And finally, to Flick's amazement and Racetrack's complete dismay, Flick allowed her mind a split second to rewind and realized what she had just said.

            "Us showin' our...Race!"

            She turned to him accusingly, just as the two of them, neither taking much notice, stepped over the grassy threshold of Central Park.

            "Yeah?" he replied innocently, lighting his cigar.

            "Ya told Secret we's banished from Brooklyn!"

            "Ah. Well...we are."

            "I am." She crossed her arms. "What's yer track record wit Brooklyn?"

            "Ah," Race repeated brilliantly, reddening.

            Flick seemed to be enjoying this. She perched on a conveniently located park bench, and Race resignedly perched beside her. "Well?" she demanded.

            Racetrack shrugged. "Well...it started wit a pokah game."

            The newsgirl snorted. "No kiddin'? An' heah I t'ought ya got in a fight wit Spot oveh some goil."

            "Shuddup, Flick," Race suggested peevishly.

            She declined the invitation. "So what happened?"

            "Basically, it started wit a pokah game an' ended wit me gettin' two black eyes, a few cracked ribs, a broken arm, an' God only knows what else, 'cause I'se fairly coitain I blacked out at some point."

            Flick just stared at him for a few seconds after this explanation. He stared back with an expression that read, Ya happy?

            She certainly wasn't happy, however. Come to think of it, he couldn't remember ever seeing her eyes that dark before, except the couple absolutely traumatic occasions when they'd turned black.

            "Idiot," she murmured, fire in her voice.

            "Me or him?" Race questioned, grinning slightly. Flick gave a small grin in response.

            "Both o' youse, but I meant him." She frowned. "Ya told me da beginnin' an' de end...so what went on in da middle?"

            "As ya useta be so fond o' sayin', take a guess."

            "Ya beat 'im at pokah an' 'e t'ought ya cheated."

            "Good guess."

            "Well, didja?"

            "Flick!" Race actually glared, which was a funny sight; his baby face was not exactly made for glaring. "Gimme some credit. It was Brooklyn. I ain't dat stupid."

            Flick shook her head slowly, eyes straying to some obscure point in the distance. "I jist don't b'lieve it. What da he** is Conlon's issue wit losin' at pokah? An wheah did 'e get da notion dat no one can do it honestly!? He ain't even dat good!" She pondered for a moment. "So you an' me an' Secret all have bad credit wit Brooklyn...an' Secret's de only one dat actually did anytin'! An' she's de only one he's supposedly f'given." An enormous amount of sarcasm went into that last word. "Anyway, whateveh 'e's got in store fer her t'night, he's already done 'is part at corruptin' 'er." Without warning, she smashed her fist onto the bench so hard that Race winced; whether for her fist or the bench, he couldn't quite say.

            "I hate dat kid," she stated for about the tenth time that day.

            "Dat makes two o' us." With another philosophical shrug, Race stood up and gathered his papers. "C'mon now, we best get dese sold if we wanna make da race t'night."

            Flick followed his example distractedly. "Race," she commented frankly, "Spot Conlon's spent 'is life beggin' ta be soaked."

            "Ya t'ink ya could take 'im?" Racetrack asked with equal frankness, adjusting his cigar and working out an improvement on a headline.

            Flick answered with startling honesty.

            "I doubt it. Spot's got da most ovehsized ego in da city, but if dere's one t'ing 'e don't exaggerate, it's 'is fightin' skills."

            "Yer tellin' me."  Race chose not to drift back into the realm of that painful memory.

            "Yeah...so, if it's truth ya want, I don't t'ink I could soak 'im." Her next words were both grim and deeply wistful. "But God, would I love ta try."