The eight year old took the money ran down the stairs, still wondering. 'Mama' wasn't his real mother - only his aunt. He'd never met his real mother. He didn't know her face, not even her name. An' I don't wanna. His father's younger sister came by the house every evening to cook, clean, gossip, an' criticize her brother's care for his only child - or she had until a couple weeks ago. His father refused to talk about what had happened to her. Evan knew she couldn't be dead. He'd known people who had died before - he'd been to the funeral of his best friend's mother barely a few months ago. So his father couldn't be protecting him from that. He ran down the street, still thinking.

"Hey, Evan, wait up!"

He slowed as his best friend came running up beside him and grinned. "Heya, Jack."

Frankie "Jack Kelly" Sullivan, who used his mother's maiden name and would fight anyone who called him different, rolled his eyes. "What, is dat jist da funniest t'ing ya evah hoid dat ya gotta keep bringin' it up?"

"Jist about!" Evan retorted.

Jack shoved him. He pulled off his hat and bowed mockingly. "I'se so sorry, Mista Sullivan."

"Don't call me dat!" In a few seconds the two were rolling down White Street (an entirely unfitting name, considering how dirty the neighborhood was). A few ladies pulled their skirts out of the way and several wagon drivers cursed, but most people ignored the fight. The sight was common enough and the grins on both faces made it clear that that they were friends.

"Ya comin' ovah tanight?" Evan asked, in the midst of the wrestling match.

Jack shook his head, just barely escaping a headlock. "Naw, I'se gotta poimanent residence now. Pop's out again."

"I give it two weeks." His friend predicted. The other boy laughed.

"I give it one, if dat! Ya really t'ink my pop could keep outta jail for two weeks?"

"It is a longshot, ain't it?" Evan replied. Jist as well, too. "Cowboy, why da ya stay wit 'im, when all 'e does is hit ya?"

They wound down and broke apart. "Yer one ta tawk!" the bigger boy retorted. "He'd hit me woise if I left. Anyways it ain't like I see 'im dat much. An' by da next time 'e's out-"

"Yeah, I know, ya'll be in Santa Fe."

"Dat's right." Jack pulled his cowboy hat onto his head proudly. It completely covered his ears, and he had to tip it back to see, but it remained his most prized possession. "So what'cha doin' out?"

He nodded at the baker's as they approached. "Gotta get some bread."

Jack looked in the window of the shop. "How much?"

'Bout five cents more den I got. Evan thought, but didn't say. Jack caught his eye and understood.

"Same routine?" he whispered as his friend entered. Evan nodded. He did his best to look small and pathetic, but honest as he studied the loaves of bread on the counter. For the money he had he could buy two day old rolls from the back room. With a little maneuvering, though . . .

"Boy!" Evan looked up innocently, taking an instant dislike to the imposing, flour-covered woman leaning over the counter.

"Yes, ma'am?"

"What do you want?" Mrs. Kesey barely looked at him as she spoke, searching the store for more likely customers. Evan had the feeling, however, that if he'd made the slightest move toward one of the cookies in the basket on the counter, she'd have had the police in there in seconds.

"Jist loaf a bread, ma'am."

"I see, and can you pay for this loaf of bread?" The woman asked, clearly expecting otherwise.

"A coise, ma'am! Me mudda gave me a whole quarter-" Jack, where are ya? he thought. Right on cue, a loud crash sounded in the back of the shop. Even Evan, who had been expecting it, jumped. It was one of Frankie's better efforts. The woman immediately ran for the back, yelling all the way. Evan quickly grabbed two loaves of bread from the shelf, snatching two cookies for good measure.

Jack tore around the front, grinning. "Glad I don't woik fer her!" He laughed. "C'mon, if we'se caught we'se dead."

"Den help me heah!" Evan shoved one loaf into his friend's arms.

"Oh, don't I get a cookie?" Jack teased.

Evan glared at him. "Can we get outta heah?"

They cut through an alley and down another street, running until they were sure the baker could not have followed them.

"Heah, come dis way." Jack shinnied up a porch pole of one of the many tenement buildings. They collapsed outside a window to enjoy their ill-gotten spoils. Evan graciously handed one cookie to Jack, saving the other for himself. "Dis is where I'se stayin'." Cowboy explained, through a mouthful of cookie. "I don't t'ink Pop's home yet."

Not while da bars're still open. Evan thought. Michael Sullivan was actually fairly popular in that part of Brooklyn. Handsome and charming, he never lacked a friend willing to buy him a drink. Evan tended to take his friend's opinion of Jack's father, however and it was not a high one. His own father, at least, never started drinking until after supper. Speaking of which - "I betta be gettin' home."

"An' where were you?" Patrick asked glowering.

"Jist at da baker's. Frankie got a loaf, too." Evan pointed out the obvious. Jack, who had opted to come along, nodded, and Patrick seemed just to notice him.

"An' runnin' wild all ovah New Yawk, 'tween heah an' dere." he muttered. "I heah yer fadder's back in town, Francis."

"Yes, sir."

'Mama' had still not appeared by that evening, so Patrick undertook the cooking on his own. Watching, Evan was glad the bread was made and unspoilable. The final result was inedible, but by then the boy had eaten almost half of the loaf and was satisfied. His father gave up on the cooking, ate the rest of the bread, and sent Evan to the other room to collect a book and a bottle of beer. The former was for Evan, the latter, for Patrick. Evan began reading, watching his father warily. About four pages (and two bottles) later, Patrick stood up and began pacing agitatedly.

"Life coulda been betta fer us." his father said.

Evan closed his eyes recognizing the coming speech. Every time he got a few drinks in him, Patrick would begin this.

"If yer mudda had stayed-" Evan began to wish he could close his ears as well. He had no wish to hear more about his mother, the woman who had left him behind on a door step barely a day after he was born. "I loved 'er." Patrick mourned over his bottle. "I loved 'em both." He seemed to see his son once again. "Did I evah tell ya 'bout Elizabeth?"

On'y a hundred times.

"Her eyes was grey. Always laughin' dey was. She was always laughin'. She laughed when I ast 'er ta marry me. Said who else was I plannin' ta ask, if not her? She'd decided I'se da man fer her yeahs ago. She useta say I had da key ta 'er heart." He reached for the string that hung around his neck and twisted it around his finger. A small, silver key flashed in the lamplight. "She always wore dat liddle lock on a chain. People useta laugh cuz it was such a strange kinda jewelry fer a goil ta weah. Liz'd jist laguh back an' kiss me. An' I'd laugh, too, cuz I knew what dey din't. I knew it meant she was mine. She was mine."

Until he came. Evan's thought was not impatient, only a little pitying - and angry that anyone could reduce his usually strong father to a state of tears.

Because Patrick was crying. "Until he came." he echoed, too lost in memory to see the lamp burn out and leave the two in darkness. Evan turned it up and relit it, finding the wick by memory as he listened.

"I knew he wanted 'er." his father said quietly. Evan felt another surge of anger at this nameless man as well as at the woman he had never met. "I knew I couldn't fight 'im, but I nevah t'ough she'd leave me . . ."

That was the end of the speech. Evan slid out of his chair and moved around the table to his father's side. "Aw right, Pop." he said as if he were the parent calming a bewildered child.

"I loved 'er. Trusted 'er . . ."

"I know, Pop. It's late. Why don't ya go ta sleep?" Patrick stood up as Evan peeled his fingers off the bottle. He followed drunkenly as Even led the way to the apartment's single bedroom.

His father rolled into bed and soon began snoring away. Evan tucked him in, and stared at him for a few moments. He could never see himself exposing so much of himself to one person like that. It was asking for trouble.

Tink. Tink. "Psst! Evan!"

He heard a tap on the glass of the bedroom window. Cowboy's face peered in. Even raised the window and nodded over his shoulder warningly. "Pop's sleepin'." A dark bruise covered one side of Jack's face, but he didn't comment on it, just pulled his friend inside. There were no extra blankets in the apartment - Evan's father was using the only one. The boys curled up together in a corner and fell asleep, their faces exhibiting for the first time that day, the innocence that eight year olds were meant to show.

Spot smiled sadly. He hadn't thought about those days in a long time. A sound at the door of the room caught his ear, and he looked up to see Jack entering - late as usual. "Jack!" he hissed quietly as his friend came over to climb into the neighboring bunk.

Jack turned, surprised. "Yeah?" the Manhattan leader asked. He was too keyed up from his date to sleep, so he didn't mention the after-midnight hour.

"'Memba da old bakery routine?"

Jack smiled. "G-d, dat was yeahs ago! 'Fore-"

"-'Fore you left Brooklyn fer da las' time."

"I ain't waitin' fer 'im ta come back again." Jack explained. "I'se sick a it. I'se gonna try somet'in else. I'll woik da trains or somet'in. Dat'll get me ta Santa Fe! Why don't'cha come?"

"Not while Pop's sick." Evan said adamantly. Jack looked like he wanted to protest, but didn't say what both knew - that Patrick Conlon's illness would likely be over all too soon, and permanently.

"Aw right." Jack stood up uncertainly. Evan rose as well. They spat in their hands and shook. What was there to say? They'd been best friends for all of their ten years and now they would probably never see each other again.

"Rope a bull fer me when ya get dere." Evan faked a grin.

"Shoa. Ya's on yer honor ta keep drivin' old Kesey mad." Jack said the same way.

"I'll stop by an' see yer mudda ev'y time I gets da chance." Evan referred to the small plot in the cemetery several blocks away.

"T'anks." Then, since there seemed nothing else to say, Jack turned and headed off.

Evan watched him go for a moment, then turned himself. He had things to do, after all. People left all the time. They died or changed or just disappeared like his aunt. It wasn't something to cry about - especially since ten-year-old boys were far too grown up to cry. It was the law of change.

"Buy me las' pape, Miss? Please? 'S only a penny."

"Hey, Spot!"

The boy did not turn from his sale. "Jist a minute! Can't'cha see I'se woikin'? T'ank ya, Miss." He favored the woman with his most grateful smile, pocketing the dime she'd given him with delight. Only then did he turn, tilting up his gray hat to look up at Piano. The present from Sky was one of his most prized possessions, but it was still a bit large.

"Yeah?" He asked, digging out his remaining papers from where he'd hidden them.

"Sky wants ta see ya. 'Bout yer pop, I t'ink."

At that, Spot shoved the newspapers under his arm and took off running for the docks where the Brooklyn leader sold. Since his father's ailing condition had forced them both onto the streets a year ago, Evan had taken up the job of selling newspapers. Sky was a fair leader who always watched out for the younger newsies, and (though the eleven-year-old would never admit it) Evan's idol. He was waiting when Spot skidded to a stop in front of him. "Slow down! Kid, I-" Sky's expression said it all.

"He's dead." Spot said quietly.

"Kid-"

The eleven-year-old had disappeared with his own words, not to be seen or heard from until the day of the pauper's funeral at the same cemetery he'd promised to visit regularly.

"Ashes to ashes . . ."

". . . dust to dust." said Mr. Greenbarrow in a shaking voice. The leader of the Brooklyn newsies stood at his side, tight-lipped and expressionless until the last words were spoken. At the end, feeling all the eyes of Brooklyn on him, Spot turned to leave, his hand convulsing once around a drooping bouquet in his pocket.

"Keet, take charge." he said, his voice dangerously quiet.

"Where're ya goin'?" the blond boy asked in surprise. His surprise had nothing to do with being placed in charge. He and Splitz were about tied for the place of Spot's second-in-command, and with Splitz in semi-disgrace at the moment over a certain incident involving the East River, Keet was the obvious choice. No, he was surprised that Spot would leave Brooklyn at all under the present circumstances.

"Manhattan." Spot replied shortly.

"But-" Keet did not often challenge his leader, and his nervousness was evident.

"Gard'ner's sista is in Manhattan." Spot stopped and turned, his expression showing that further questions would be unhealthy. Fortunately, Keet was satisfied with that, his own expression showing he would rather deal with all the hotheads and thugs in Brooklyn than with one hysterical sister. Keet didn't even ask when Spot would be back, knowing Spot never left Brooklyn for more than three days at a time.

Spot headed for the bridge, his eyes alert for any sign of Gardener's murderers, his mind full of the funeral sermon. Ashes to ashes . . .

When Kloppman came through, rousting the newsies out of their beds with shouts and a few well--aimed pokes with the broom handle, Spot had not yet closed his eyes.