JACK KELLY
House of Refuge, New York
October 1897
"Your Honor, I beseech you to grant leniency upon young Francis," The old man had asked on Jack Kelly's behalf. He shifted nervously on his feet, his fingers clutching the brim of his hat. "He's a boy of fifteen, lost and led astray, but with a good heart."
The Honorable Judge Monaghan's gavel lay at hand, poised to strike. His gaze remained fixed upon a ledger, keeping record with a pen. "Mr. Kloppman, you come before this court with the audacity to ask for leniency in a matter of theft, vagrancy, and public intoxication? The law is not a market for pity, but a realm of justice."
Lawrence Kloppman's hands tightened on his hat, the sweat beading on his forehead. "Your Honor, I do not make light of the law's weight. But I know this boy, Francis. He ain't one of them hardened criminals, like the one you see before you." A gesture was made to a dark-haired youth a couple years Jack's senior, sitting off to the side, having already been given his sentence. "He's been dealt a cruel hand, an orphan, with only a sister to care for."
The judge's pen scratched against the paper, the sound resonating through the courtroom like a cold wind. "An orphan, you say. That does not excuse his transgressions."
Kloppman's voice wavered, carrying the heavy burden of a man who knew the injustice that could befall an innocent soul. "Your Honor, he stole from me, that's true. But it was not out of malice, but desperation. He sought escape from his sorrows in laudanum, a moment's relief from the news that his father's been sent back to the penitentiary."
Monaghan's gaze lifted from the ledger, his stare unyielding. "Mr. Kloppman, there is a code, a rule of law that must be maintained, regardless of circumstance. Laudanum or no, the lad must bear the consequences of his actions."
"Your Honor, I beg you, think of his sister," Kloppman's scratchy voice quivered with an emotional plea. "She's but a child of thirteen, left to the harsh mercy of this world, with naught but Francis to guard her against its cruelties. Do not sever their bond."
The judge's eyes bore into Kloppman's, a clash of wills within the confines of the room. "Superintendent Kloppman, while sentimentality tugs at my heart, it does not sway the law. The refuge stands as a corrective institution, a place of reform, where the path of righteousness may be carved from the soil of youthful folly."
With that, Kloppman's shoulders sagged, the weight of disappointment mingling with a resolve not yet relinquished. He had fought for most of his boys over the years in similar situations. Other judges had usually been reasonable for first-time offenses. Judge Monaghan, however, rarely ever showed a crack in his unbending dogma for law and order. "Your Honor, please, let not the scales of justice be so rigid that they snap the fragile thread of hope. Let Francis face his mistakes but grant him the chance to prove that he can change, that he can mend his ways."
Monaghan's blue stare softened momentarily, his eyes holding a glint of begrudging admiration. "Mr. Kloppman, your words are impassioned but they swim against a tide of tradition. I shall heed them, but my decision remains. Fifty days in the House of Refuge."
As the gavel came down with a resonating thud, Kloppman slumped to his chair in defeat, a sigh of acceptance escaping his lips.
Jack stood there, trying not to tremble amidst the tense exchange, reaching up to clasp the St. Philomena blessed medal around his neck. The one his late mother had passed down to him. The words passed between the judge and Kloppman like echoes of fate, shaping his destiny before his very eyes without his say. He'd never felt so helpless, how his actions had led him to the precipice of damnation. His heart pounded in his chest, his breath caught in his throat as the weight of his mistakes bore down on him. He had hoped, even against the odds, that Kloppman's plea might sway the judge's decision, like it had on other occasions. But as the gavel fell, the refuge became a certainty.
The boy looked up at the judge, his eyes burning with a mix of fear and resignation. He looked at Kloppman next, who had fought for him with such fervor, and his chest tightened with a surge of guilt and gratitude. It felt as though the walls of the courtroom were closing in. Once again, he was small and insignificant, a pawn in a game much larger than himself. He wondered what this would mean for his sister, Sophie, who depended on him.
Sophie sat in the corner of the courtroom with Medda Larkson, her small frame almost swallowed by the worn, wooden bench. Her hazel eyes, wide with a mix of hope and anxiety, had been following the exchange between Kloppman and the judge like a tennis match. She clutched her ragged shawl around her shoulders, as if seeking some comfort in its frayed edges. Her heart pounded in synch with Jack's at each word spoken, each gavel strike that punctuated the fate of her older brother.
As the judge's final verdict was delivered, tears welled up in Sophie's eyes, threatening to spill over onto her pale cheeks. She dug her nails into her palm. Like Jack, she had been holding out for hope, praying that Jack would be given a second chance, that somehow his innocence and good heart would shine through the accusations against him.
Jack's gaze found hers, and Sophie's heart ached with a bubbling blend of sadness and anger. She saw the fear and acceptance in his eyes, and it mirrored the turmoil within her own soul. She knew he had made mistakes, but she also knew the circumstances that had led him down this path. She wanted to run to him, to hold him close and tell him that everything would be alright, but she was frozen in her seat, unable to do anything but watch as her brother's fate was sealed.
When Jack was escorted from the prisoner's box, Sophie's tears spilled over, trailing down her cheeks like a river. She lowered her head, her matted blonde hair falling forward to partially shield her face from the prying eyes of the courtroom. She wiped her tears on her shawl, trying to regain her composure, but the moment was almost unbearable.
She had to have known by now what he'd done.
Jack had filched money from the old man the night prior, purchased laudanum at a less than reputable apothecary, and gotten the most inebriated he'd ever been after consuming the beguiling elixir of oblivion. Jack passed out on a bench outside of Central Park, nearly freezing to death. The beat cop who found him was anything but charitable that evening, and Judge Monaghan, a sentinel of the legal realm and arbiter of the law, was even less so. His skepticism was unyielding, immune to the commendation proffered by one Superintendent Koppman. Monaghan had seen plenty of street urchins, the castaways of society, come and go from both the almshouse and the workhouse, labeling them indistinct footnotes in the annals of his court. All of Jack's kind were the same, and he was no better. But to throw a nasty, ensnaring habit like laudanum-imbibing with reckless abandon into the mix, alongside vagrancy and petty larceny charges…Jack might as well have been labeled a leper. A pariah amidst humanity.
At first, the judge assumed Jack was affiliated with a neighborhood gang, and the trial throughout pushed the narrative that Jack had been reading too many cheap dime novels of the Deadwood Dick variety.
Laudy-lackeys, as they were flippantly called, were one of the city's growing, unpleasant problems that no one quite knew what to do with. The city's underbelly, burgeoning with a swarm of desolate souls whose tattered raiment clung to emaciated frames, harbored a cohort of hop fiends. Among them, Jack stood, bared before the judgement of sober man, his sins unveiled in the presence of a magistrate, a friend, and the divine.
The echoes of the past reverberated through Jack's mind, as if the words of his steadfast comrade, Spot Conlon, had been etched in the marrow of his bones. In the haze of a sweltering summer night, Spot's voice resounded vividly, a reproachful reminder of his descent into the abyss when Spot found him spun-out and loopy beneath the pier.
SPOT CONLON
Brooklyn, New York
July 1897
"See here, Jack," Spot's words had lashed with a poignant sting, "you're a rather pitiable sight, sprawled like a mariner lost in the brine. Did you mean to jump into the drink, only to emerge half-drowned?"
With a sneer that bore the sharpness of defiance, Jack had retorted, "As if I meant to do anything of the sort, Spot."
"Oh, so your meaning remains secret to all save yourself?" Spot's tone carried a mix of incredulity and reproach. "Should you be held accountable solely for what you do on purpose? Tell me, did you mean to drink laudanum, till you staggered like a newborn fawn? Did you mean to mix laudanum with cannabis, morphine, and belladonna until you were too weak to swim?"
SOPHIE KELLY
Manhattan, New York
October 1897
As the courtroom began to empty, Sophie remained seated for a moment longer, lost in her thoughts. She felt a gentle touch on her shoulder, and she looked up to see Medda, the starlet proprietor of burlesque house Irving Hall, where Sophie boarded on the third floor. Medda's eyes held a mixture of sympathy and concern as she reached out to brush a strand of hair away from Sophie's tear-stained face.
"Come, child," Medda said softly, her voice carrying a soothing warmth. "It's time to go."
Sophie nodded, her heart heavy with the knowledge that she was saying goodbye to her brother, at least for a while. She stood up slowly, her legs shaky beneath her. As she walked out of the courtroom, she stole one last glance back at Jack, his figure receding into the distance.
While the judge's attention shifted elsewhere, Sophie found herself making her way back to the front of the courtroom, her vision blurred with tears. She had to say goodbye, had to let Jack know that no matter what happened, their bond was unbreakable.
As she reached him, she didn't need words to convey her feelings. She threw her arms around him, holding him as tightly as she could. Jack's arms wrapped around her, and they clung to each other.
"Jack," her voice was barely more than a whisper, muffled by his chest.
"Soph," he choked out, his voice thick with emotion.
Tears kept streaming down Sophie's cheeks, wetting the fabric of Jack's shirt. She wished she could protect him from the world, from the hardships they faced. But life was harsh and unforgiving, and the House of Refuge loomed like a specter over their future.
"I'll be here," she finally managed to say, her voice trembling. "Waiting for you."
Jack pulled away slightly, his hands cupping her face as he looked into her tear-filled eyes. "I promise, Soph. I'll be back before you know it. And when I'm out, things will be better, I swear."
Sophie nodded, her tears falling freely now. She believed him, held onto that promise like a lifeline. As they stood there, locked in an embrace, the world outside the courtroom seemed to fade away. In that moment, it was just the two of them. Sophie knew that no matter the distance or the challenges that lay ahead, she would always carry a piece of him with her until he got out. But as she stepped onto the bustling streets of Manhattan, her heart felt emptier than ever before.
JACK KELLY
House of Refuge, New York
October 1897
Now Jack found himself huddled in his seat, a solitary figure amidst the ferry's journey toward the foreboding citadel of grey stone that awaited on Randall's Island. The bracing autumn air harried his cheeks and nose. He'd heard many a tale of what loomed within the menacing embrace of the walls.
"Are you deaf?" The dark-haired youth from the courtroom interrupted Jack's daydream.
Jack snapped his eyes toward the speaker. "Sorry, what?"
The young man's lips parted, revealing a smug curve, as he supplied, "The name's Lion Valentino."
"Lion," Jack echoed, giving a respectful nod. He was the prettiest boy Jack had ever seen, like a saintly painting come to life. "I'm—"
"What are you in for?" The older youth interjected, his demeanor marinated in the seasoning of experience, a bitter seasoning of hardships endured and lessons yet learned.
Reticence lingered momentarily before Jack, tethered to the stranger's inquiry. Succumbing, he offered a watered-down tale in a tone drained of much affect, "Vagrancy, theft, and public intoxication. I don't know."
A boisterous laugh erupted from Lion, a cacophonous mirth underscored by a life-weathered irony. "I don't know, he says! And how long does not knowing get you?"
"Fifty days," Jack confessed, his words cloaked in a subdued timbre that revealed his youthful uncertainty.
"Mere trifles," Lion declared dismissively. A consolatory pat on the back manifested as he advised, "If you're discrete, you'll get out with your neck unscathed. Ignorance is a worthy ally."
A befuddled look came over Jack's features as he grappled with Lion's counsel. "Not sure I understand—"
"This is your first time, ain't it?" Lion interposed, a keenness born of familiarity shimmering in his dark eyes.
Jack assented with a tilt of his head. "Yes. I take it this isn't yours."
"Heavens, no." A playful glimmer danced within Lion's gaze, an ember of amusement that found voice in his mocking tone. There was something magnetic about the older boy — his deep dark eyes seemed to hold secrets, and his swarthy skin told tales of sunsets and misadventures. A subtle dimple formed on Lion's right cheek as he grinned. "A kid of fifteen, a fledgling. I bet you ain't yet turned a moll's skirts green."
Jack's retort faltered in the face of Lion's laughter, an eruption that echoed as if the very stones of the fortress walls found mirth in his revelation. "Have so," Jack protested, though his heart held no conviction to match his words.
Lion gifted Jack his coat, offering solace against the chill, and pulled his own hat down low. Jack recalled Lion's sentencing with a cringe, as it had preceded his own with quite a song and dance. The boy had been clamped in irons off the bat, though looking comparatively worse for wear. His trial consisted of his own testimony, falling asleep for a brief period, and then his admittance that he'd been previously sent to the House of Refuge for two years with three of his friends for possession of burglar's tools.
This time, Lion had been found in a state of extreme intoxication, as plain as day to the fly cop, and publicly fornicating in an alley with a habited sister of The Poor Clare's of Perpetual Adoration. This emitted a collective gasp and murmurs from spectators in the gallery and court officers alike. The cop who brought him in beseeched the judge to add felonious assault to Lion's list of charges.
Steadying himself against the railing and seeing three judges in one dizzying blur, Lion argued the copulation between himself and the nun had been completely consensual. He seemed to be especially vindictive toward the cop who'd collared him.
"I'll murder you when I get out of the refuge, you fuckin' rawboned son of an Irish bitch," he'd said by way of premonitory warning to the officer. As Lion said those words, he'd straightened up to his full height of six-foot-two, and if it hadn't been for his exhaustion he would've posed quite a savage threat. "I wasn't doin' anything wrong, you cracked, brainsick Tammany-whore of a bull."
Jack had slumped further down on the bench, shocked he was being corralled with the likes of this fast-talking Bowery cove.
As the ferry's impending landing drew near, Jack's eyes returned to the scene before him, its severity poised to unravel his nascent resilience. The sun dipped below the city's horizon, casting long shadows across the waters of the East River. The ferry chugged its way toward the desolate shores of Randall's Island.
The ferry captain, a balding older man, gave a solemn proclamation that once again jolted Jack: "This is your final port of call, boys, a residence of esteemed infamy — the Graybar Hotel. Randall's Island is there to the east. You can see that for yourselves." He pointed at the large brick building close to the shore of the island. It towered over the few trees nearby. "Big, isn't it?"
The captain must've seen Jack's look of fear because he chuckled and added heartily, over the chug of the engine and water, "Oh, sonny, it isn't so bad. You'll be alright. Plenty of good sorts. They've been dealt a rough hand, is all. I suppose you're the same, whatever your story is."
Lion winced as he gingerly pressed his palm to his forehead, a portrait of discomfort etched upon his tanned features. "No need to rouse the heavens this early in the morning," he muttered, his voice a grumbling undercurrent of protest.
Jack, marked by bewilderment, regarded Lion with furrowed brows. The disclosure of the late hour painted the scene with a layer of confusion that he couldn't fully fathom. "It's close to seven in the evening."
The House of Refuge must've been nearly a thousand feet long. The main building, for boys, was massive, with three large vaults and dozens of rectangular windows, some with stained glass. Mosaics of Christian iconography. Others with bars. The main building could hold more than four hundred boys. Next to it was a less imposing building for girls.
A squat and burly guard with a twice-broken nose, dressed in a bottle-green woolen uniform, emerged from the swinging open gates to welcome the assemblage. Several deckmen rushed to meet the ferry at the dock. The guard had a mustache that stretched across his upper lip like a baritone's crescendo. His pale eyes danced briefly with recognition as they fell upon Lion.
"Hungover upon arrival, Mr. Valentino?" The guard's words carried forth like an accusation, making the keen observation from the docks.
A pallor set over Lion's countenance, an almost ethereal hue, confirming the guard's conjecture in a manner too poignant to refute. "Eyes like a damned hawk, that Mr. Ramsey," he muttered to Jack.
Lion's discomfort burgeoned until it culminated in a fit of retching inside a small bucket the ferry captain generously offered — a sorry dance of misery that Jack walked unfold with a mixture of empathy and distress. The two stood like fallen sparrows, perched precariously before the lair of an angry giant.
"You ain't looking too lively, Lion," Jack whispered, casting a glance toward his fellow crewmate.
"Cursed stomach," Lion retorted through clenched teeth, following Jack down the gangplank. "I'll fair better once we get off this blasted boat."
Yet this spectacle, unsettling as it was, awakened a nauseating response within Jack himself, a physical resonance that made his own equilibrium waver. The air seemed thick with the apprehension of what lay ahead, like the discordant notes of an ominous symphony.
Mr. Silas Ramsey's strides echoed against the cold stone corridors as he led the pair to wait outside the warden's door. For the education of Jack, the first-timer, Ramsey explained that the boys' building housed dormitories, a chapel, a dining hall, classrooms, a kitchen, a tannery, workshops, and even an infirmary. There was a steel mill just to the west side, where some of the boys were expected to work. Twice a day, rain or shine, they would be sent to an exercise yard behind a great stone wall. In the back were gardens, where in the summer the girls worked at growing vegetables. Near the dock where they'd landed was a large storage shed.
"Best straighten yourselves up," Ramsey said, his words threading the air like a whisper of caution. His presence bore a gravitas that evoked a chill down Jack's spine.
Ramsey eyed Lion with a measure of suspicion earned through prior encounters, a history forged on the anvil of past transgressions. It became evident to Jack rather quickly that Lion's prior visits to the refuge had not endeared him to Ramsey.
Lion's stomach turned as if tortured by the tolling of a bitter bell, and Jack's heart matched the rhythm, each beat echoing the uncertainty that swirled around them like a fog of unease. The two soon found themselves sinking onto a splintered bench, their demeanors worn and burdened. Lion allowed his eyes to flutter shut, a fleeting respite from the merciless rigors of the surroundings.
"Last night, they booked me, Jack," Lion confessed in a voice tinged with rue. "I was so drowned with wine, I surrendered without a whiff of resistance. Didn't even try to run for it."
From across the shadowed chamber, a voice, rough and tinged with longing, chimed in, "By the star's above, I'd part with my very soul for a drop."
Jack's eyes shifted, unveiling a boy who had eluded his notice. This youth, bedecked in the coarse inmate uniform of dusty blue, personified discombobulation itself. His raven locks cascaded untamed over his eyes, threadbare attire a testament to how long he'd been there, his hands in perpetual wringing, and his brown eyes ablaze with untamed fervor.
"No Name, you riddle, you son of a bitch," Lion jested with mirth, clasping the stranger's hand in camaraderie. "Say, I thought you for a ghost, didn't I? Reckon we all did, at some point. How do you like that?"
"Some mate you are."
Jack's brows knitted, and his lips gave voice to his intrigue. "No Name? As in, you don't have on?"
"Half-true, you might say," No Name, his lips curved in a genial half-smile, offered.
Lion's curiosity eclipsed all else. "How did you come to be here?"
A languid gesture saw No Name's ebony tresses brushed aside. "I took the ferry."
"No kidding. I meant before that. How come you're here?"
"Sure, yeah. Ol' Monaghan sent me 'bout a month ago. Said this place would do me some good. Keep me sober, you know. I think I may have a bit of a problem."
Lion leaned in, his voice a mere breath. "Don't we all?"
A nonchalant shrug graced No Name's shoulders, a manifestation of deeper musings. "Snyder promised me a sip of whiskey, so long as I put in some extra hours at the mill. A promise I hope he aims to keep."
Amidst the shadows that seemed to stretch and coil like serpents, there loitered a congregation of about a dozen inmates. Each one stood ensnared in a spectral queue, a forlorn assembly awaiting an audience with the warden—an encounter laden with trepidation and the weight of their own tenebrous fates. Jack found himself an unwitting spectator to this tableau of human despair, imprisoned by the disharmony of muted mutterings and disjointed ramblings that emanated from these anguished souls. Their voices, mere echoes of sanity, danced upon the air, intertwined with the somber notes of imminent madness.
"Alright, Valentino!" A voice, colored with the brashness of an Irish accent, rang out from the line, directed at Lion. Jack's eyes, now attuned to the subtleties of the wretched scene, followed the call. An easy smile adorned Lion's face.
"I thought you was done with this place, Lion. What's led you back here this time?" The question, wrapped in cynicism, had scarcely left the lips of the inquirer when Lion gave a retort with effortless disinterest.
"Screwin' your dear mother, Mahoney."
A ripple of laughter surged through the hallway, a brief respite from the prevailing desolation.
"So long as you put coin in her palm, I ain't complaining," Mahoney, the Irishman who'd asked the question, quipped in response, forsaking any pretense of indignation. With a sense of camaraderie that only suffering could birth, he strode over to Lion. His light eyes then shifted to Jack, a cipher amidst the labyrinthine corridors of this misery.
"And who's this then?" Mahoney's gaze pierced through Jack, unraveling the strands of his being.
Lion, the purveyor of sarcastic jests, bore no answers, his shrug an embodiment of ignorance. "Wouldn't tell me his name. First-timer."
A nod, a gesture laden with meaning, emanated from Mahoney—a gesture that bestowed upon Jack a knowing stare, sharp as a dagger's point. "Welcome to the inferno, lad," he proclaimed, a phrase that reverberated not only through the atmosphere but also within the chambers of Jack's consciousness. He stuck out his hand for Jack to shake. "Cards Mahoney."
Stoic and wordless for a moment, Jack weathered this introduction, absorbing the torrent of emotions that surged around him. "Jack Kelly."
"The rest of the boys," Lion asked with genuine interest, "how are they holding up?"
"Aye, same old rigmarole." Mahoney's reply carried the weight of mundanity. "I've been trying to convince Marquette, elusive as the wisp of smoke, to get me a cigarette. It may well be my saving grace." His eyes flickered to Jack, a suspicion that held more secrets than words could express. "Snyder, I reckon, is sick of seeing my ugly mug in his doorway."
"Marquette's here again," Lion sighed, a false lament woven into the syllables. "I was wondering why he disappeared. Camille's been sleeping alone for once, I take it. I hope she's coping."
"Francis Sullivan," the guard Ramsey's voice sliced through the air, compelling Jack to stand. He beckoned to the boy with a curl of his finger, opening the door to the warden's office wider.
He heard Lion and Cards muttering about his true name as he drew near to the office. The door was shut behind him and he followed Ramsey further into the large bureau. The warm air from the raging fire in the hearth clung to him, as if probing his very soul.
Seated behind a great mahogany desk, Warden Snyder's piercing eyes drilled into Jack, and with an unsettling serenity, he motioned for the boy to take his place opposite the desk. A bin of male refuge uniforms lay before him on the floor, identical to those adorning the others outside. Jack hesitated, a tremor coursing through him like molasses, as Snyder's impeccable stare spurred him into action.
"Find a uniform that fits and put it on. Keep it pristine. You will receive no replacement until laundry day." The warden's words were laced with a chilling finality, and Jack complied, awkwardly disrobing to his underclothes with a sense of vulnerability that clawed at his insides.
The exchange continued, Snyder's demeanor never faltering, a master of disquieting composure. Even as he offered a drink of water, a subtle threat hung in the air like an unspoken storm. Jack declined with a voice barely above a whisper, his fear palpable.
Asked about his impression of the institution, Jack stammered, taking in the intimidating expanse of the warden's office.
"It's big."
"Daunting, some say," Snyder went on, pouring himself a glass of water. "Still, not as grave as the penitentiary. But that doesn't mean you won't be a true penitent while you're here." The warden's voice dropped to a hushed tone, a whispered incantation of terror that gripped Jack's heart. "You must behave accordingly. Don't let the others influence you."
He opened a crisp file folder and explored the contents. "Some reformatories assign their inmates numbers, but we will know you by your name. Stand straight and still before me at once." The quick change in tone of the demand made Jack's face prickle with embarrassment as he moved to center himself before the warden, fixing his posture and moving his fidgeting hands to his sides.
Snyder remained steadfast. "You come from the newsboy's lodging house in the city, on Duane, correct?"
"Yes," Jack admitted.
"Yes, what?"
"Yes, sir."
"Your mother is deceased, and your father has recently been incarcerated at Ossining for a second time," Snyder continued, peering at a handwritten letter over his reading spectacles. "You have one sister, three years your junior. Both of you are in the custody of the state."
Jack lowered his eyes and nodded.
The warden's visage contorted with a perverse delight in his accuracy, a dance of power and subjugation. But then the atmosphere shifted, a sudden crescendo in Snyder's controlled symphony. "You must be feeling all kinds of strange. But there's no point in dwelling on what might've been. You're young and foolish, and you cannot undo your crimes. But through hard work, you may redeem yourself. Finish out your time here, and you'll be free to go."
Snyder's voice, once a whisper, now reverberated with thunderous intent. "The worst kinds of slum rats are in here: liars, thieves, pimps, murderers." Snyder shook his head, only making Jack's heart race faster. "I've seen horrible things happen within these walls. Horrible. I've seen boys leave this reformatory only to return as hardened criminals. I do not want you to follow in their ways. Do you understand? I run a clean, God-fearing institution."
"I understand." Jack nodded once more. "Sir."
The boy's apprehension, his trepidation, were expertly wielded by Snyder's words, spoken with a paternalistic malice. And yet, a sliver of mercy, a deceptive shadow of benevolence, flickered in Snyder's voice. A chance to curry favor, to find a twisted sanctuary in the warden's good graces.
"I want to help you," Snyder said. "Perhaps you'd make my job easier with your cooperation."
"How do you mean, sir?" The promise of protection, the veneer of safety, was a poisoned chalice that Jack dared not refuse.
"It's simple. You do as you're told. You don't cause trouble for me."
Jack blinked, looking away.
"What do you say, hm?" Snyder asked. "It would make your time…painless. Can I count on you?"
"Yes, sir." Jack looked up at him.
Snyder took off his coat, draping it across the back of his chair. "That's a wise choice, Mr. Sullivan. I'm happy we understand each other."
The door opened again, and the same guard from earlier appeared in the doorway.
"Mr. Ramsey, show Francis Sullivan to his dormitory," Snyder said without looking up from his paperwork. "Ward Eleven has two openings, I believe. And tell Lorenzo Valentino he may come in so long as he's through vomiting up an entire cask." To Jack, "Goodnight, Mr. Sullivan."
"Goodnight, sir," Jack replied unsteadily.
As Jack retreated from the office, the warden's parting words hung like a pall in the air. An unsettling calmness enveloped the room once more, as Warden Snyder returned to his bureaucratic machinations.
Jack followed Ramsey up several flights of stairs, thinking of Sophie, desperately trying to sort through all the pain and confusion he must've caused her. He wanted to see her as soon as his visiting privileges were permitted.
The doors of Ward 11 swung open, and in a ghastly instant, the very air seemed to thicken with apprehension. A vista of gloom greeted Jack—the dormitory stretched out before him, a cavernous chamber harboring rows of narrow beds, some already housing their occupants like specters in their shrouds. For all its forbidding chill, the meager solace of these beds offered the only respite from the dire surroundings.
Filth clung to every surface, darkness clung to every corner, as if despair itself had seeped into the very walls. The cold, unfeeling floor bore the scars of neglect, while the peeling walls stood as testaments to the struggles etched into them. Upon closer inspection, names carved deep into the aged wood whispered tales of those who had come before—Joe Hainey, Atticus Loughborough, Johnny Marquis, Jasper Vanderpool, Moses Cassidy—their voices echoing like ghosts in the squalid stillness.
Threadbare clothes and worn boots were strewn haphazardly, bearing witness to the desperation that clung to these boys. Through grimy windows, feeble rays of light filtered like a mournful reminder of the world beyond, a world they were now exiled from. Despite the isolation, privacy was but a forgotten concept in this desolate abode. In such a communal space, most everything was out in the open.
"Find an empty bed. One of the two that have been stripped. You'll need to make it yourself," commanded Ramsey, his grip on Jack's shoulder relinquished. "Mr. Valentino will show you wear to get supplies once he gets here. Supper was at seven, so you'll have to wait until breakfast to eat." He gave Jack a sidelong glance and then checked his timepiece impatiently.
"Your daily schedule from now until your last day here will be as follows: Awakened at half-past five for washing and morning prayers. Half-six is exercise in the yard. Quarter after seven you'll have chores, and then breakfast is served at eight. You will begin your work in the shops at nine until noon. From there, you're allowed forty-five minutes of spare time before and after lunch. From half-one, you'll resume your labor until five o'clock, where you'll be sent for lessons in the schoolroom. Like I said, seven o'clock is supper. Afterwards, you may spend the evening how you like, in recreation or study. At nine, you will say evening prayers, and at half-past, you will be silent and in bed. Understood?"
"Yes, sir." Gratitude was the mask Jack wore, despite the knots of hunger that twisted within him. Ramsey's acknowledgement was a mere nod—a fragment of humanity wrestled from his stern visage.
Yet, with a desperation as old as the earth, Jack dared to voice the yearning that had gnawed at him the whole time he'd been there. "I wonder," he implored, "if I could write a letter to my sister? I'm all she has in the world, and I know she's worried about me."
Ramsey's countenance shifted, a flicker of something unexpected danced across his features, as though such entreaties were not within his sphere of expectation. "Hm?" he responded, a gruff curiosity.
"And do you think it's possible," Jack continued, his words pouring forth in an unbidden torrent, "that I could visit with her soon? Would Warden Snyder allow it?"
A smile, oily and insincere, crept upon Ramsey's lips. "Of course, arrangements can be made," he drawled, savoring the power his words held. "Your sister can be sent for, by the warden's personal invitation."
The burden that had pressed upon Jack's chest lifted, if only but an inch, as if the shackles of despair had been replaced with gossamer threads. "I'd be so grateful, sir," he stammered, his voice trembling as if afraid to believe the boon granted. Yet, with hope dawning anew, he gathered his courage and ventured further. "And one more thing, if I could? I haven't eaten anything since yesterday, and—"
In the span of a heartbeat, the guard's patience crumbled like brittle parchment, and Jack found himself thrust against the cold, decaying wall, the Ramsey's leather strap delivering a brutal blow to his cheek. Pain exploded like fireworks, a symphony of agony that resonated through his very bones. Jack tasted the metallic tang of blood as his tooth collided with his lip, his world whirling in chaos.
No quarter was given. Jack's body was but a puppet to the guard's violent dance, as he was thrown against the wall, then back, the very air stolen from his lungs in the onslaught. The room spun and contorted. A vortex of anguish threatened to devour him whole.
Sharp gasps punctuated the brutality, drawn from Jack's quivering form like vaporous specters. Amidst the shock, Jack's eyes landed on another youth—brown-haired, eyes unflinching—yet another lost soul, ensnared in this malevolent web, untouched by the amusement that rippled through the room. Violence did not appeal to him, it seemed, unlike the bloodthirsty others.
Reluctant fingers touched trembling lips, a feeble attempt to stem the tide. "I'm sorry," Jack whispered, his voice shuddering like a leaf in the gale.
But Ramsey's retort was colder than the night's darkest depths. "You don't make demands here, ingrate," he hissed, a viper baring its fangs. "You're hungry? You wish to see your sister? Earn it or wait for it."
"I didn't mean to—"
Ramsey's eyes bore into him, a predator assessing its prey. "I don't recall giving you permission to speak to me in that tone, boy. Did I invite a debate?"
A tremor coursed through Jack, his Lower East Side spirit flickering in the face of unrelenting menace. "No," he stammered, fighting to mask his fear beneath a veneer of meekness. "No, Mr. Ramsey."
A sinister satisfaction painted the guard's face, a portrait of dominion. "That's what I thought," he hissed, a serpent's whisper, a promise of suffering withheld yet omnipresent. And then he was gone.
Jack stood agape, a hapless wanderer adrift amidst a tempest of clamor and mirth. The very air seemed electrified with raucous laughter that danced alongside a discordant symphony of colorful swears, a babble that defied the constraints of proper linguistics. It was as if the boys confined there had cast aside the norms of the English language and embraced a medley of tongues and slang unspoken by most of the staff in the institution.
The furniture, once prideful in its novelty, now bore the scars of unforgiving time, weathered and battered like the aspirations of those who huddled within. The floor, a cold and uninviting host to weary feet, exuded an aura of ancient desolation, a testament to the perpetual dampness that pervaded the space. Jack, wide-eyed and overwhelmed, allowed his nerves to release in a tremulous chuckle, a laughter not of joy but of shock—a fragile shield against tears threatening to surge forth.
A stern figure sauntered forward, his manner as well-worn as his uniform, a cascade of greasy blonde locks framing a visage etched with disillusionment. This apparition of a seasoned dweller bore the unmistakable look of one who, in his tenure, had witnessed many a newcomer.
"That bed is free," the blue-eyed blonde announced in a voice ravaged by the harsh embrace of tobacco smoke, punctuated with a German accent. He motioned toward a metal-framed bed crowned with a flimsy mattress tarnished by the sanguine vestiges of blood. "If you want it, it is yours."
Jack mustered a casual thankfulness. "Thank you. Could you show me where—"
"Calico!" A voice sharp as a blade's edge, sliced through the haze with an abrupt and intrusive echo, diverting Jack's words.
The blonde boy shifted his attention, acknowledging the other with a nod laden with familiarity. "Atlas."
"Snyder asked me to ask you if you still wanted to smoke," the boy wearing a blessed medal about his neck — Atlas — inquired, his eyes locked in conversation with the one known as Calico.
A glance, cold as ice, fell upon Jack once more, a parting gaze as Calico joined Atlas by the double-doors. "So long as he gives me a light this time. I won't clean another chimney for it," the faint murmur of Calico's voice floated back to Jack's ears as the two figures retreated.
"Better soot than steel, that's my take. I'd brave the chimneys if it meant I could sit out the mill," Atlas' voice chimed in, its sentiment a testament to the harsh calculus of survival.
"I have not felt like myself lately…"
The voices waned, becoming distant echoes, as Jack sat upon the squeaking mattress. It's metal frame groaned beneath his weight, a lament in response to the intrusion. His wounded face throbbed in unison with the creaking bedstead, his body a repository of aches and indignities.
Jack's fingers sought solace in the St. Philomena medal around his neck once more — a relic of his mother's embrace. A pang of longing rippled through him, a yearning for a warmth now distant, for a family torn asunder.
He didn't notice the figure who'd materialized before him. A shadow granted voice and form.
"Would you let me take a look at that?" The voice was unexpectedly gentle, emerging from the brown-haired boy, who'd witnessed Ramsey's storm. Jack's eyes ascended hesitantly, as if bracing for another swing and punch. But he was met with neither hostility nor derision. A damp cloth was clutched in the boy's grasp.
"Huh?" Jack uttered, a symphony of nerves in a single word.
With measured tenderness, the boy's voice flowed like a soothing balm, its cadence a melody woven from empathy. "Don't worry, I'll fix it up."
Jack surrendered himself to the gentle touch of the wet cloth, its chill a stark contrast to the warmth of the boy's eyes. As the boy's skilled hands made their way across Jack's wounded face, as the cloth absorbed the specs of blood, Jack bit the inside of his cheek, determined not to wince or make a sound. The cloth wiped the blood from his nose, and Jack couldn't help but flinch and hiss in protest as it stung.
"Aw, come on," the boy lulled with a frown. "It ain't that bad, is it?"
The hands finally stilled and the wounds ceased their seeping. Jack was left, not bereft, but accompanied by the resonance of unexpected kindness.
"Tomorrow it'll ache, but you'll mend," the boy assured Jack, a promise of respite in the storm. "In the morning, wash your face and mind them cuts."
A rush of gratefulness surged within Jack, his voice laden with sincerity as he whispered his thanks to the Good Samaritan. The boy departed without a word, leaving behind a wake of unspoken understanding.
Out of the corner of his eye, Jack saw Lion enter the dormitory with Cards, both full of swagger and sway, like kingpins in their realm. Cards, an apparent confederate of dirty jokes, whispered something to Lion, who in turn relayed whatever it was to another slender inmate. As Jack approached the three, the atmosphere crackled electric.
With the grace of a cold on a frozen pond, Jack ventured forth, clutching his own frame as if to guard against the chill that wasn't merely in the air. Lion's eyes, sharp as the edge of a cutlass, pinned Jack like a butterfly in a lepidopterist's display case.
"Have you been helped?" Lion's words sliced the air, impatient as a brewing hurricane. The question hung heavy in the air, as Jack fumbled with his words like coins dropped in a dark alley.
Jack's voice, fragile as spider's silk, quivered. "Sheets. And a pillow?"
Lion and his cronies exchanged a glance, giving silent nods, like a clandestine code shared among thieves. "Sure. Down the hall, third door to the right. It's a linen closet," Lion said, the rhythm of his words hinting at some unsung mischief. "You'll need an upper and lower fitted sheet, pillowcase, and blanket."
Jack nodded, giving a half-hearted smile, and turned, his back bearing the weight of Lion's smirk. He made his way down the corridor, his mind a haze of anxiety. The path Lion had charted was now a web, ensnaring Jack in doubt. Left or right. Third door from the dormitory or from the staircase.
The door Jack selected creaked ajar, the linen closet revealed, and a cascade of light erupting into the tiny enclave, as if Jack had unearthed a secret vault that hadn't seen light in years. But what he found therein was no treasure trove.
His presence, an unexpected bolt from the blue, shattered a passionate display of intimacy. There was a girl's squeal, a rustling of skirts, and a tableau of modesty momentarily undone. Jack's cheeks flushed crimson, his voice now a babbling brook of apologies, words tumbling like pebbles in a stream's tumult.
The tall young man with her, inky hair tousled by lusty fingers, met Jack's flustered face with a wry grin. "If you're stayin', close the door," he quipped, his voice dripping with devil-may-care nonchalance, as if he were a protagonist in some bawdy tale.
"Oh God, he'll tell!"
The girl's eyes pierced Jack's with a silent plea of secrecy. Her companion steered her toward Jack, like a performer orchestrating an absurd charade with a marionette. Jack's gaze darted away, suddenly a shy fox confronted by the glare of a hunter.
"Go on, Libby, give him an eyeful and he'll keep mum," the young man whispered with a hoarse cackle, his lips beside the flat of her ear before kissing the soft lobe.
In her agitation, the girl's elbow found its mark in his guts, freeing her from the clutches of her partner's grasp. Tears welled, as if the gravity of the situation had seeped into her being. "Stop it, Muggs," she sobbed with a note of distress. "That ain't funny."
Jack's retreat was swift, his exit hastened by an apology. The door shut and his steps retracted, returning to the dormitory in embarrassment, empty-handed. He sat down on his mattress, avoiding eye contact with the others, including the young man he'd walked in on — Muggs — after he reentered the dormitory not long after.
Muggs had a face that seemed to have weathered more stormy seas than his years should have known. He converged with a lanky figure, hollow-eyed and wearied in some forsaken fraternity. Muggs whispered something low to him, and then his friend's eyes shone toward Jack. A discomforting tension congealed in the dormitory's stale air. The lanky youth fixed Jack with a vacant stare that spoke of bitterness entrenched. It sent a chill down Jack's neck. In tones that carried a Slavic cadence, Muggs' friend called out to him.
"What the hell are you looking at?" His words, barbed like wire, lashed out at Jack's unsettled expression. "You need someone to tuck you in?" A sneer curled his lips, a sinister reel of shadows in the dimness.
The black-haired Muggs, a smirking specter in this forbidding tableau, shifted his focus from his friend to Jack. "Nah, he's waiting for his mommy to read him a bedtime story."
A chorus of derision rang out. Laughter, rough and cruel, followed this jibe.
"No way he'll last," the Slavic speaker declared, his voice laced with a challenge than Jack felt more than heard. "Bet you he'll cry tonight."
Muggs leaned in curiously. "Okay," he drawled, his eyes glinting with a twisted intrigue. "Your breakfast says he'll save the tears for night two."
A shake of the hands sealed the bet, leaving Jack wanting to sink away into the grimy floor. Before he could attempt such a feat, the double-doors swung open with a thundering boom and in strolled a second uniformed guard, different from Ramsey. He was taller, with a thin face and a long white scar at the edge of his eye. Upon seeing the guard enter the room, Jack felt the energy in the entire dormitory shift to something unnatural and frantic. The boys stopped what they were doing, a hush falling over them, before they moved to stand before their assigned beds. The guard pulled out a pocket watch and examined it, casual-like.
In an instant, the boys around Jack were scrambling to shed their boots and uniforms, revealing dingy undershirts and long underwear that hardly served as a barrier against the cold that seeped through the cracks in the walls and ceiling. Jack quickly mimicked their actions, removing his new uniform and folding it neatly beneath his bed.
A rollcall and evening prayer commenced wherein the guard, with the air of a military man, strolled down the aisle of boys like a vulture homing in on fresh carrion. His attentions found Jack and his stripped bed. He stopped and retreated to stand before Jack, eyeing him curiously.
"Why is your bed unmade, boy?" The guard's thunderous voice roared like cannon fire. "Ain't you got the sense to fetch supplies?"
Jack's breath became stuck in his throat. "I'm sorry, sir." His words got the attention of the others, like buzzards circling around a dying beast. "I couldn't find the right closet."
Lion met Jack's eyes with a shake of his head, the verdict clear as a church bell tolling.
"Mr. Ramsey said you told him where to fetch supplies, Valentino." The guard's voice cut like a whip. He kept his eyes trained on Jack.
"Yes, Mr. Whalen." Lion was considerably quieter than Jack had known, falling heavy on his conscience.
"Curious, isn't it." The guard Whalen peered at Jack. "Can't even follow the simplest of orders, can you?"
In that awkward moment, Jack glanced toward Lion and Cards, their eyes reflecting amusement seasoned with malice. It was a play of shifting blame, and Jack found himself the unwilling star, stumbling on the stage.
Thinking it would be best to retrieve the linens and be done with it, Jack began the shameful retreat to the door. He was quickly halted by Whalen's hand, an iron grip on his chest.
"Running somewhere, are you?" Whalen's voice turned the heads of all in the dormitory to the unfolding drama.
"I'm getting the supplies," Jack replied politely.
"You said you tried but found nothing, didn't you?" Whalen's words were like molten lead, searing Jack's resolve.
Jack wavered, searching for a lifeline in the eyes of the others, finding nothing. It was like a closed circle.
"Are you lying, then?" Whalen's grin was a cruel gash across his face, widening like a chasm. "I think you owe me an apology."
Jack felt the familiar heat of rage rise within himself, a fire fueled by the injustice of it all. He stood his ground, spirit aflame but voice shaky. "Apologize for what?"
Whalen's concealed nightstick met Jack's skull with a sickening thud. Another blow, a sonata of pain composed in the cold air, painted Jack's face with crimson hues.
"A smart mouth won't do you no good." Whalen drowned the whispers of the watching boys. "Get on your knees."
Jack knelt, his body wobbly, his mind reeling. As the others looked on, the nightstick rose again, like a conductor's baton ready to strike a final blow in a tragic sonnet.
"Beg, you dog," came the decree, as the nightstick threatened to paint its brutal notes upon Jack's flesh once more.
No one moved to intervene, to halt the cruel cadence. Whalen's hand moved again, striking Jack's skin and marking it red. "Say it, boy," he barked, "or stay down there all night. The choice is yours." The nightstick punctuated his words upon Jack's shoulder.
"I'm sorry," Jack muttered, as if praying to a deity. "I'm sorry for lying."
"Crawl," Whalen commanded as Jack's cheeks flushed scarlet. "Crawl to each boy and beg their forgiveness for taking away their breakfast privileges."
The chorus of quiet groans became a crescendo of dread that quickly died the moment Whalen turned his head. There Jack remained, knees planted upon the unforgiving floor, the weight of his transgressions bearing down upon his trembling frame. Guilt's shackles held him fast, his body a vessel for the tears of his wounded pride.
"I don't see you crawling," Whalen said.
With a heart heavier than a millstone, Jack lowered himself to his elbows, meeting the filthy floor. The shame set his face ablaze, mingling with the remnants of the recent beating, leaving his nose and mouth to weep their own tales of misery.
As he crawled, inch by inch, the floor's grime mingling with his humility, he stopped at the feet of each of his fellow inmates. Their stares were as cold as the hardwood beneath their feet. Desperation etched every corner of Jack's being as he begged for forgiveness, for pardon.
All around, a gallery of somber faces bore witness. Some shifted uncomfortably, casting furtive glances at one another like stolen goods. Others whispered in the shadows. Jack yearned for an end, a release from this degrading march across the seemingly endless aisle on the floor.
"Keep on crawling, boy," Whalen repeated. "Show the boys how to make a good apology."
"That's enough, sir." A lone voice, hoarse as an old ship's creaking timbers, rose from the ranks. Jack was at his feet. "He said he was sorry."
Whalen's ire blazed like a prairie fire, his rage smoldering within his eyes. He approached the speaker — a blonde inmate Jack hadn't yet seen, unyielding as a lighthouse in a storm.
"This ain't your concern, boy," Whalen rumbled.
The inmate's voice, though softer, carried a weight of its own. "I'd say I'm mighty concerned."
A silent battle of two titans unfolded, inches apart, a contest of wills and defiance that dared to crack the very foundation.
"I'll get him the supplies he needs," the inmate continued, holding strong. "There's no need for a spectacle."
"The warden will hear of this, Krause," Whalen hissed, his threats a venomous serpent. "And there will be consequences, you can count on it."
"Sure, I know." Krause's words, quiet as a whisper, shook half the building according to Jack. Krause nodded toward the youth still on the floor. Then he looked back at Whalen, unflappable.
Whalen continued the staring contest, his eyes boring holes into Krause. None of the inmates spoke, focused on the abrupt crack in the façade of guard-prisoner power dynamic. Jack had completely collapsed, imploding into himself, like no more than a ball on the floor. He was too mortified to care who would win the war forming a foot above him, draped in the stillness of the room.
Whalen tilted his head, looking Krause up and down, and unfolded his arms. He raised the nightstick to Krause abruptly, making like he was going to hit him. But Krause stood there without a flinch, fully prepared to take that hit.
Not getting the reaction he'd wanted, Whalen stepped back. His grin disappeared as a grandfather clock rang out in the hallway, signaling the hour of half nine.
"Past our bedtime," Krause noted casually.
Whalen's response came quick, his anger brewing. "You will be in the warden's office tomorrow morning."
"Yes, sir," Krause said, his demeanor unbroken, as Whalen turned and strolled to the doors.
"To bed, all of you!" Whalen shouted, extinguishing one of the gas lamps on his way out.
Krause extended a hand to Jack as the other boys' eyes lingered. "Come on, kid, off your knees." To the others, Krause added a stern and decisive, "Show's over."
Jack stood there, eyes watchful as a barn cat. He figured the warden wasn't the sort to let a slight against his guards go unbalanced, nor an act of torment go unfinished. Krause might be in trouble for speaking up, but Jack had been the main target.
The older blonde boy — Jack's savior — seemed to know the lay of the land, the rough and tumble of refuge rules. To Jack's weary eyes, Krause's sympathetic look spoke volumes, a forewarning of trials yet to unfold before he stepped out of the dormitory for a moment. When he returned, Krause was carrying clean linens, which he then set on Jack's bed, getting to work making it. Every fold and tuck was as clean as a preacher's sermon.
"What's your name, kid?" Krause asked, as he slid a worn, patchwork pillowcase onto its cushioned partner.
"Jack," the younger boy replied, sniffling the blood from his nose. "What's yours?"
"Call me Grim. Everyone does," he said, a wry smile curving his lips. His eyes, though, held a wisdom of ages, as though he'd seen more sorrow than the Hudson's waters.
"I'm sorry," Jack murmured, sorrow and guilt mingling like a bitter brew. "I didn't mean for you to catch trouble on my account."
Grim brushed off Jack's apologies like dust from a well-worn coat. "Don't worry. Scrapes like that are typical 'round these parts."
A tear, one solitary drop, clung to the edge of Jack's eye. It wasn't lost on Grim. He shuffled closer, sitting himself on Jack's bed. "Are you scared?" Grim asked, his question more of a statement of fact than curiosity.
He knew the answer as well as a fisherman knew the currents. And Jack, after a spell of quiet contemplation, nodded slow. A field of wheat bowing to the wind.
"Don't be scared." Leaning closer, Grim let his words flow like a river's song. "Wipe them tears. Don't give 'em the satisfaction. It ain't worth it."
Jack obeyed, swiping his eyes with his hand.
"Remember how I said it might hurt tomorrow?" Jack looked up to see the same boy who'd cleaned his wounds standing by the bed with another cloth, a cup, and a few bandages. "It will hurt tomorrow. Hurt like the devil."
Jack nodded. "It hurts now."
Grim moved out of the way for the healer to do his job. "This here's Doc," Grim said, introducing the boy to Jack. "You ever get any aches or pains, go to him."
Doc handed Jack the cup to drink, and Jack frowned at the bitter taste, gagging after he managed to swallow. Jack shook his head, setting the cup down. "That ain't water."
"It'll help, but it tastes like a foul draught," Doc uttered.
Jack's thoughts wandered to a sweeter remedy, a respite from suffering akin to the bitter concoction. "Don't suppose I could get some laudanum?" he ventured with a whisper of longing.
Doc's response was blunt as a river rock. "Negotiating ain't your strong suit."
Grim sighed in agreement. "Best stick to what Doc has. Paregoric's your ticket to sleep."
Doc's practiced hands tended to Jack's wounds, weaving makeshift bandages around his injuries. The blankets offered scant comfort, more akin to a shroud than a haven. The weight of fifty days' sentence pressed upon him, heavy as an anchor in a stormy sea. Jack's gaze, brimming with fear and uncertainty, locked onto Grim's steadying presence.
"I feel awful about getting all of you in trouble," Jack muttered. "Getting your breakfast taken away…"
Grim's smile was a flicker of warmth amidst the cold. "That's a drop in the sea. Besides, you're new, you didn't know."
"You've been here a few times?" Jack guessed.
"Something like that," Grim said. "I've seen more of this place than the streets."
"Doc, you fuckin' sawbones!" The inmate Jack knew as Muggs called from the other side of the room. "How 'bout you get me drugs like you got for the new kid?"
Doc exchanged a look with Grim, shaking his head. "Get them yourself, Muggs," he replied without looking in that direction.
As Muggs rolled his eyes, his Slavic friend clutched at his stomach, his face writhed in torment. "Doc, I think I'm dying." His voice was more desperate than a prayer in the night, pain etched in every syllable.
Doc's stern façade faltered, revealing a chink in the armor. "Sorry, Alexei. My hands are tied. Snyder doesn't have what you need." He ran a hand through his hair. "Drink water."
"Water makes me sick," Alexei murmured, starting to fold over and heave after those very words, much like Lion hours earlier.
The boy in the bed next to him, Calico, covered his eyes. "Nein, do not throw up in here, Alexei. I swear to God. If you do, I will hash my dinner."
Jack looked frantic at the thought of seeing two more inmates vomit.
"I've got it," Grim mumbled to Doc, standing up and hurrying over to Alexei's crumpled form. He guided Alexei through the dormitory to the adjacent washroom, his whispered words a soothing salve.
Jack settled back into bed, left in the darkness with the sounds of other inmates whispering and betting on how long Jack would last. He curled into himself, clutching the blanket, and trying his best to drown it all out.
A flicker of optimism burned in his chest, the notion that escape might yet grace his fortunes. But as darkness fell and fatigue's iron shackles claimed him, Jack's dreams turned to a realm far removed from his grim reality. A cherished reverie emerged, casting the glow of happier days. His sister, his father, his mother — their faces appeared before him, a serenade of better times. Yet this illusion, tender as morning dew, was shattered as a gravelly voice pierced his slumber's veil, urging him awake.
"Jack?" The voice, soft as a whisper on the breeze, intruded upon his sanctuary. Tremors, not of sleep but of some deeper sensation, rocked him awake. His mother's touch slipped like smoke through his fingers, the warmth of her embrace retreating to the hollows of memory. "Jack, wake up."
Startled, the boy jerked upright, his eyes grappling with the dimness to find a shadowed figure beside him. The disheveled older lad crouched there, concern furrowing his brow.
"Sorry to wake you," Grim whispered, kneeling beside the metal frame. It had to have been just after midnight. "I wanted to make sure you were okay." His voice was resigned, but his eyes indicated a range of concern.
Jack's hands clung to himself, the tremor in his lower lip betraying his turmoil. "I'm fine," he stammered, attempting to mask the fragility that lay beneath his façade. The timidity of a rabbit cornered painted his expression, and yet, he was not alone in that desolate corner.
Grim shook his head, sighing. The air itself seemed heavy with the heaviness of his sigh. "Nothin'," he half-lied, hiding the true cause of his concern, not wanting to say he'd heard the kid whimpering in his sleep. "Rest up, Jack."
With a parting pat upon Jack's shoulder, Grim rose, the creak of the metal frame echoing like a mournful dirge. He lingered a heartbeat longer, his gaze anchored on the shivering form beneath the meager blanket. Words unspoken swirled betwixt them, yet Grim chose silence in the end.
As the footsteps retreated into the abyss of the refuge, Jack raised his head, determination warring with despair. Rats skittered across the stone floor. His jaw clenched, damming back a flood of emotion threatening to breach.
With a shuddering breath, Jack dipped a hand beneath his threadbare undershirt, retrieving the cherished token. The silver medal, nestled in his palm. Lips brushed against the cool face. Fingers traced the delicate lines, seeking solace in the tangible memory it held of his mother.
As Jack stirred, roused from fitful slumber, he bit down on his quivering lip, caught between the ambience of sobs around him and the frigid bite of the air. A prayer, raw and earnest, rose like a wisp of smoke from his desperate heart, and in hushed tones, he murmured it, as if the very walls had ears to the spirit world.
Summoning a reservoir of resolve from within, Jack swung his aching legs over the cot's edge, each movement an agonizing protest. He shuffled toward the closest window, its iron bars an embodiment of his captivity. As his fingers closed around the cold metal, he stared out into the inky void, fixating upon a singular star that dared to glimmer amidst the Stygian heavens — Polaris, the North Star. A constant sentinel, it seemed to meet his eyes, its feeble twinkle a testament of unyielding determination, mirroring his own wavering spirit.
Jack's stare turned misty as he whispered heavenward, his breath a supplication, his tears a tribute to a mother he'd lost but not forgotten. The salty rivulets carved trails down his pallid cheeks, making tributaries through the grime. A determined crease marred his young brow.
Through the frost-kissed windowpane, October's chill invaded, nipping at his nose and gnawing at his lips. He withdrew his numb hands from the bars, a pitiable attempt at warmth. His thoughts drifted to Sophie, her whereabouts a mystery. A whispered wish lingered in his chest — a desire for her safety, for her to be protected in the arms of Medda, kinder than this world allowed.
And in that moment, that fleeting sliver of eternity, Jack thought he could rend those iron bars asunder, escape the prison, and be free upon the cobblestone sidewalk below. The notion fluttered like a caged bird within his chest, a bird whose song carried notes of liberation and wild dreams. But there was no way across that freezing river, not until morning.
Kissing the medal around his neck again, he closed his eyes and tried to imagine his mother's voice, like she'd sounded in the dream. But it slipped away from him as quickly as it came.
Reality's grip was cruel, and the clanging of the door's lock was a jarring reminder of his plight. His heartbeat quickened and his blood ran cold. The creaking of hinges marked the imminent entry of an unknown person in the darkness.
Quickly, Jack retreated to his cot, flinging tattered blankets over his shivering form and squeezing his eyes shut. A façade of apathy enveloped him, as if he could convince himself that indifference was armor, that nothing within those walls could pierce his defenses.
The doorknob turned. He heard a jingling of keys along with footsteps as the door closed again. The light footsteps drew nearer and nearer until they passed his bed entirely, like a ghost wandering and haunting the room. A darkness crept at the edges, threatening to consume reason itself. Peering just over his blanket, Jack could just make out a silhouette against the dim moonlight filtering through the windows. Panic gripped him, his mind a whirlwind of terror as he struggled to see. The specter moved further away, a shapeless form losing human contours.
Perhaps it was a ghost, or perhaps it was Jack's imagination starting to play tricks on him. Whatever Doc had given him to drink appeared to be working to its full effect. He was already losing his sanity. Ignoring the poltergeist, he buried his head under his pillow and forced his mind to shut off, to forget where he was. If only for six hours more.