So I never got the required seven reviews. But whatever. I really like this story so I guess I'll keep updating. You guys owe me.

Chapter Four

It was about an hour till dawn when I woke up, drenched in sweat and trembling. That was nothing new for me. Since waking from a two-day coma a week ago, I had suffered an on-and-off fever and chills. The worst part of my illness had passed, but I still didn't feel up to par.

As I lay on my small cot, lying underneath a thin blanket, I tried to recall the dream that had woken me so abruptly from my troubled sleep. It had been about myself, I was convinced of that, but the details were fading fast. I had seen myself with my parents. At least, I thought they were my parents. I resembled them a great deal. There was also a couple that I couldn't even begin to name. Perhaps they were an aunt and uncle. And there had been a young gentleman too.

The young man was perhaps the most important part of my dream, more like a memory than anything else. He had seemed very congenial towards me, though my dream self hadn't seem too pleased with the advances. Perhaps this odd glimpse into my inner mind was more than a dream. Perhaps I was actually remembering something of my life before someone had tried to kill me.

It was tough not remembering who I was. After waking up from my coma, I had discovered that I knew nothing about myself. Who I was, where I was from, what my name was; it was all a mystery to me. It was disconcerting, knowing that I had been someone and now I was not.

They called me Munchkin. The boys, I mean. They all had little made-up nicknames for themselves, mostly I think because they wished to keep their true identities a secret. If I had known my real name and who I was, I would not shy away from being myself. Alas, they knew who they were and I did not know who I was. So I was called Munchkin until I could discover my true name.

I couldn't help but smile as I thought about the boys. They weren't all boys; some of them were grown men who still acted like children. It was they who had saved my life, stumbling across my abandoned body in a foul-smelling alley not far from where they lived. The old caretaker of the building, Mr. Kloppman, had been attending to my every need for the past week. He cleaned and dressed my wounds, which were extensive and disturbed me almost as much as the loss of my identity.

When I had woken up, I had been in a great deal of pain. I had broken two fingers on one hand, my leg, and my nose. In addition, I was missing an entire finger on my other hand. It was just gone. It hurt constantly, a dull throbbing that just wouldn't let me forget about its absence. On top of that, I had stitches in my face. It would most certainly scar. I had yet to see my reflection in a mirror (I was beginning to think that there was none in the Lodging House where I was staying), but I knew I would look terrible. I could feel it when I touched my face.

I turned onto my side, avoiding my injured left leg, and tried to fall back asleep. It was hot in the little room where I slept. As I had been brought into the newsboys Lodging House by the two chaps who found me, called Racetrack Higgins and Kid Blink, kind Mr. Kloppman had felt it indecent to put me in the dormitory with the patrons. For one thing, it was a boys' dormitory, and I was, most definitely, a girl. Secondly, I had been in a coma for two days and was injured, and Mr. Kloppman felt I should rest away from the commotion of their daily life.

So I was in what everyone referred to as the office, though it looked nothing like what I imagined an office to look like. It was small and square, and very dim as it had no windows. The only light that entered the room now came from the crack underneath the door leading out to the lobby. Another door led to the private quarters of Mr. Kloppman, which could only be reached going through the office. There were spare cots stacked up against the walls, save for mine which had been pulled down. There was a small wooden table, very rickety, standing above the bed. Two hard-backed wooden chairs had been placed in the room for the boys' use when they came to visit me.

They had visited me often since I had woken up a week ago. They were conscientious of when I wanted to be left alone, when I was too tired for their company, when I was irritable. But when I wanted company, they were always there. They kept me entertained with outrageous tales I knew must be partially false; they brought me little gifts that they purchased at the general store with their spare change, which I knew must be hard to come by in their profession; they recited riddles and jokes that were only funny half of the time. But they kept me sane, I supposed. As sane as someone in my position could be.

Further sleep eluded me. My memory-dream had thoroughly woken me, and sleep was out of the question. I sighed heavily and reached above my head, turning the oil lamp higher and filling the room with a dull light that cast an orange glow over everything. Although parts of the building were wired for electricity, this room was not.

Getting out of bed was a chore I'd been practicing for a week now, and I was getting fairly efficient at it. I put my uninjured right leg down on the floor, then carefully moved my splinted left leg beside it. It was placed between two boards and strapped in securely so the bone would heal correctly. It was somewhat uncomfortable, but I had gotten used to it.

It made for interesting dress, however. I had been given some old hand-me-down clothes from some of the older boys: a blue and white checkered shirt that was several sizes too big and a pair of trousers. Mr. Kloppman had meticulously took out the seams on the left leg and rolled them up so I could wear them over my splint. It revealed a scandalous amount of my bare leg, but it was the best we could do in the circumstances.

With both legs over the side of the cot, I reached for one of the crutches they had made for me. I put my weight on my good leg and stood up, balancing on my right foot. I grasped the second crutch, putting it under my left arm, and walked around the room a couple times. It was difficult to maneuver the crutches with minus a finger on one hand and with two broken digits on the other, but I was managing. When I felt sufficiently warmed-up on the apparatus, I sat down in one of the chairs.

One of the boys had procured a comb earlier in the week (I assumed it was of illegal origins, but I had adopted a don't-ask policy), and I picked this up and began to comb through my hair. My fingertips ran over a bald patch in my scalp, where the hair must have been ripped away. It was too cleanly gone to have been cut with a razor or scissors. There was a small amount of stubble where the hair was beginning to grow back. I refused to linger, and I arranged the rest of my hair to cover that small bald patch. Using a bit of ribbon another boy had given me (again, I expected it was stolen), I tied my dark-blonde curls off my neck.

An older boy, by the name of Mush Meyers, had brought me a pitcher and basin with which to wash early in the week. I dipped a clean cloth into the cool water and delicately washed my face. I had to be extremely careful, what with the stitches and the broken nose. Besides that, my face was tender to the touch. Washing it was terribly painful, so I was as cursory with the task as I dared to be.

When I felt clean, I moved back to the bed. Now for the hardest part of my day: getting dressed. The gown I had been discovered in was ruined beyond repair, so an older newsboy called Jack had given me a skirt from his lady friend. It was a bit larger than I was, but beggars can't be choosers. Once I had the skirt in hand, I carefully put my injured leg in, followed by my good leg. Now the skirt was around both legs, but I had to get it up around my hips and fasten it. Holding onto the skirt with one hand, I propped myself up on one crutch and buttoned the skirt with my right hand, the one with the two broken fingers. It took me a good minute, but eventually the skirt was fastened.

The shoes I had been found wearing were still good. They were patent leather and of very fine quality. I pulled a stocking onto my right foot, then put on the right shoe. I would leave the left one. It was too painful to try and put it on my broken leg, so I would go barefoot. I was alright with that. The bottoms of my feet were calloused and tough, as if I had walked around often without shoes. The idea didn't sound terrible to me.

I was just tying the final knot on my right shoe when there was a soft knock on the door dividing the office from Mr. Kloppman's private room. He had knocked softly so he wouldn't disturb me if I was still asleep. "Do come in, Mr. Kloppman dear." I called to him.

The handle turned and the elderly gentleman entered the small room. He was quite old, in his seventies at least. He was slightly stooped with his age, but his face was jovial and very kind. He had hair that was mostly white, and he was dressed nearly as shabbily as his young patrons, but he didn't seem to mind. Mr. Kloppman seemed to enjoy helping the young orphans and runaways of Manhattan.

"Ah, Miss. You're awake." He greeted me cheerfully. He always called me 'Miss.' The boys called me Munchkin, but dear old Mr. Kloppman seemed to think this was an unsuitable name for me. "How are you feeling this morning?"

"Ravenous." I answered honestly. Though my appetite had been almost nonexistent in the first few days after I had woken up, it was returning with a vengeance. I could think of nothing else save warm hot cakes, scones, sweetened porridge, and bits of ham and sausage.

Mr. Kloppman chuckled at my reply. "Well, the nuns from Saint Luke's will be handing out breakfast in a quarter of an hour or so. You can get some there with the boys." He looked at me, noticing my pale complexion and haggard face. "Are you sure you feel well enough to go out?"

I fixed him with a steady, firm stare. "Mr. Kloppman," I said to him. "I have been cooped up in this building for a week, and if I am not allowed out I shall go insane."

He chuckled knowingly and nodded. "I see your point, Miss."

The elderly gentleman led the way into the lobby of the Lodging House. No one else was up yet, as it was still early. Mr. Kloppman excused himself to go and wake his young patrons, who paid three cents a night for a bed to sleep in. I felt guilty for not paying, but Mr. Kloppman didn't seem to mind. Plus, I didn't have any money.

While he entered the dormitory by way of the staircase, I perched myself on the stool behind the counter. I could hear Mr. Kloppman walking around, and then the noise of the boys being woken. They didn't sound too pleased about it. By the time the gentleman was coming back down the stairs, the newsboys were shouting at one another and roughhousing.

It was about fifteen minutes later when the boys headed down the stairs, led by Jack Kelly. He was the unofficial leader of this little faction of newsboys. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and good-looking. I think Jack Kelly wasn't his real name, but I didn't ask about it. At least it was normal. Jack was flanked, as usual, by his three closest friends: Racetrack Higgins, Mush Meyers, and Kid Blink.

Their names amused me to no end, mostly because it intrigued me to guess how they had gotten those names. Racetrack's was easy; the Italian-descended boy was a notorious gambler. He spent most of his time at the racetrack, betting on horse races. He had a tendency to smoke foul-smelling cigars, which I wasn't fond of, but he had an interesting sense of humor that I enjoyed. Mush's was a bit harder. I had learned from one of the other boys that he was fairly romantic with his girlfriend, and people called him Mush because of his romantic side. He was very genuine and thoughtful, and I enjoyed his company perhaps more than any of the others'. Kid Blink was missing his left eye, which accounted for his nickname. He wore a brown eye patch over it. Every time I saw it I was grateful I still had both my eyes.

"Heya Munchkin." Jack approached me at once, gently ruffling my hair. They were all very careful with me because of my injuries.

I allowed him to muss my hair, then smoothed it down and tied the ribbon once more. "Good morning, Jack." I replied, climbing up off my stool. I situated both crutches underneath my arms and hobbled about on them. Every time I took a step and had to put weight on my injured hands, pain shot through my arms up into my shoulders. I tried to ignore it.

Mush, who I had noticed was ever perceptive despite the others' opinion that he was a bit dim, noticed the discomfort on my face. "Are you sure you want to come out with us?" He asked me.

"Now, now." I shushed him. "If I'm to be living here for a while, I need to earn my own way and pay for board." I didn't mention my uneasy feeling, that uneasy feeling that I only had a little time to figure out who I was before everything was lost forever.

We left the Lodging House and headed in the direction of the circulation desk for the New York World, the newspaper the boys worked for. The going was slower with me in their midst, but the boys didn't seem to mind. They kept along with my pace, making sure I was getting along okay. It was hard to keep up with them, and painful, but I didn't want them to see how hard it was for me. They seemed to think so much of me.

Halfway to the circulation desk, we came to St. Luke's convent. It was a large Catholic church, complete with a Bishop and nuns who had dedicated their lives to God. I wasn't entirely sure, but I was fairly confident that I had been raised in the church. Even so, I didn't feel very religious as we approached the nuns handing out crispy bread and tin cups of cold coffee.

The boys graciously let me go first, and the nuns handed me a cup and a piece of bread. It was difficult to hang onto either of them as both my hands were occupied with my crutches. I squeezed the crutches under my armpits, balanced on my right foot, and shoved the bread into my mouth in what was, I'm afraid, an unladylike display. It wasn't sausage and hot cakes, but it was all I had. Then I gulped down the cold coffee, which was almost nauseating, and handed the empty tin cup back.

We moved on after that, reaching the circulation desk. I was supposed to be going with Jack to sell. Apparently he was the one to learn from, and he was loaning me some money so I could sell newspapers. Hopefully, I would earn enough to pay him back and purchase my own newspapers that evening.

As Jack purchased my newspapers for me, I thought about how much I didn't want to be selling newspapers. I knew I should appreciate what they were trying to do for me, but I didn't want to be like them. I wanted to find out who I was. If I had had any lead about my past, I would have left before now.

Instead, I followed Jack around on my crutches, hoping to make a little honest money.

The girl was standing in the same parlor, though she looked older than she had the last time. She stood with her hands hanging loosely by her sides, gowned in a yellow dress that was elegant in its simplicity. Her blonde curls were pulled back with a simple clasp, hanging loosely over her shoulder.

The room was large, with a plush Persian carpet and wood paneling. The windows were framed by heavy brocade drapes, and the tops of leafy green trees could be seen even though it was evening. Two adults were sitting side by side on the couch, close but not touching. That characterized their marriage, the girl thought to herself.

Her father leaped to his feet. He was a tall and formidable man, dressed in his expensive suit with the dark red tie and the pocket watch attached to his vest. His large, angry face was purple; a vein throbbed violently in his temple. "Whore!" He shouted at her.

The girl's mother sat with her fingertips to her temples, but the girl knew it was because she was too angry to voice her thoughts at the moment. Her father liked to lash out, but it was her mother who was truly cruel. She calculated her every move in an effort to make it hurt the most.

"Whose is it?" Her father continued to shout at her, spit flying from his lips with every word. "Who does the bastard belong to?"

The girl didn't answer, but one of her hands meandered down to her belly. Her abdomen, just the slightest bit extended, wouldn't have been noticeable if it wasn't the object of all this anger. Or rather, the thing within her womb.

Her mother finally lifted her head and regarded her daughter with cold detachment. "And just what will the neighbors think of this messy situation?" She asked the room at large. "What will the ladies down at the club say when they discover our daughter is expecting two weeks before her wedding is to take place?"

"We'll just say the child is Alexander's." Her father said, pacing the length of the room. He pulled a cigar from his breast pocket and began to smoke it. "She'll wait a month and then announce the pregnancy as if it occurred after the marriage took place."

Her mother was shaking her head. "No, no." She disagreed. "The ladies of society are much too smart to fall for that. They'll know that she was pregnant before they married." She finally spoke to her daughter. "And how far along are you?"

The girl gently rubbed her stomach, feeling an overwhelming wave of compassion for her unborn child. With all the hate in the room, she felt more connected to the baby than ever before. Nobody else wanted her to have it, but she did. She loved him or her so much already. "Three months." She answered.

Her mother let out an explosive sigh, exchanged a look with her husband, and turned back to her daughter. "At least tell us if it's Alexander's bastard."

The girl looked up, her hands still resting on her abdomen.

I jerked awake, startled, my face wet. I was sitting in between Mush and Kid Blink on a plush covered seat. We were in a crowded restaurant by the name of Tibby's; not just the three of us, but all of the Manhattan newsboys that lived in Mr. Kloppman's establishment.

My dream was still fresh in my mind, along with the emotions that accompanied it. My heart was pounding, and my palms were sweaty. My hand strayed automatically to my abdomen. Was I pregnant? Was there a child growing in my womb? If I remembered nothing, it was possible.

Mush noticed my sudden jerk and turned to me. He saw the tears streaming down my cheeks, the salt from the tears stinging my healing stitches. He saw my hands clutching my stomach. "Munchkin, are you alright?"

I shook my head. "Mush, is there a hospital nearby?" I asked him in a whisper, trying to keep my voice steady. It was difficult. "I need you to take me there right away."

"Is everything okay?" He demanded, looking at all my obvious injuries to make sure I wasn't openly bleeding and no bones were protruding through my skin.

Again I shook my head. "No. No, Mush, it's not. We need to go right away if you're going to take me."

"Alright. Let's go." He agreed, and the two of us left the restaurant without saying goodbye to the rest of our companions.

Alright, there you go. The mystery girl's POV. I hope you enjoyed, and please review for me. It'll mean a lot.