Outside the thunder roars, and the rain pounds against the window pain. But the two boys are much more frightened of the storm taking place in the very next room. They long for the added warmth and comfort of their older brother, vanished for a week now. This is what the latest fighting is about. “How can you expect me to live like this? How can you ask the boys to do this?” More screaming, they try to block the sounds, but they only get louder and louder until…

SLAM! Jack Kelly sat up, breathing hard. It took him a long moment to realize where he was, but the sleepy groan from the bunk next to his face told him. He was in the Lodging House, his home for so long. He was safe and sound, no screams or pain. Well, his side did hurt a little, understandable since he’d just fallen from the top bunk.

Racetrack Higgins, eyes blurry from sleep, peered at him from the lower bunk. Several other boys grumbled at the disturbance. Jack shook his head, trying desperately to clear it.

“Whatcha doin’ down dere, Jackie?” Race asked, his voice rough from sleep. Jack blinked.

“I dunno, I was dreamin’, I guess. Sorry.” There was a scattering of mumbled replies before the others drifted off to sleep, but Race gave him a hard look. “Audder nightmare?” he asked quietly. Jack nodded. “Him, again?” Jack did not reply, but Race saw, even in the dark, his leader’s face get stone hard as he lifted himself back up into his bunk without another word. He sighed. He understood Jack’s hesitation; he understood it all to well. He’d known Jack far too long not to know. But, in spite of all he wanted to say, Race turned over and forced himself to try and sleep again.

Across town, at Grand Central Station, a tall man with graying brown hair and a pale shallow face and small beady blue eyes got out of the last carriage of the last train that night. The conductor might not have remembered him later, but for the strange cold eyes the man had. They were ice cold and penetrating, making him feel very uncomfortable as he took his ticket and he didn’t feel half relieved when the man got off. He owned nothing in the world, but the clothes on his back, a small suitcase and an old yellowed newspaper, dated one year ago, and bearing the headline: The Children’s Crusade; Newsies Stop the World.

“ Extry! Extry! Get yer papes!” Jack shouted. A man with a tall black hat offered him a penny and Jack handed him his paper with a “ tank ya mista.” Then he grinned. That was his last one. Now time for a nice supper with the boys.

He had calmed down considerably since that horrible dream the previous night. He frowned, shaking his head. He used to have those dreams all the time after- No! He stopped himself just in time.

You’re Jack Kelly now, Jack Kelly, no one else. He forced himself to stop thinking and concentrate on the nice pile of shiny coins in his pocket. Maybe he would stop in and see Sarah before he went for dinner. But then, dinner at the Jacobs’s was always a cause for stopping. He smiled in spite of himself. Life after the strike had been interesting. Newsies and street kids and even rich folk had found their way to Jack Kelly, amazed and intrigued by the boy who’d started the newsie strike. At first it’d been a little flattering, but soon people began to ask questions, questions he didn’t want to answer. He feared his fame might spread beyond the borders of the city, to a certain small state prison up north.

He closed his eyes and shivered in the darkening street. The light was fading quickly, as it was apt to do in late fall, and the street was slowly emptying with workers going home to their families, and Jack decided it was time to head home to his.

“Jack!” He waited as Racetrack hurried to catch up with him, before giving him the grin that made him so popular.

“Hey Race. How’s da track?” Race shrugged, pausing to lit his cigarette.

“Same old.” They smiled, sharing more in an exchange of looks than in words.

“Wanna smoke?” he offered Jack the cigarette, which he accepted and took a long calming breath.

“Come on, let’s get somthin’ ta eat.”

David Jacobs was one street over and far less hungry than his orphan counterparts. But at the moment he was far less happy. It had something to do with his younger brother Les, a flock of pigeons and his last newspapers. At the moment, he was scolding Les, brandishing his wooden sword, when a voice broke through.

“Excuse me, boy.” He turned to see a rather thin man, greasy light hair and pale skin. His eyes made David feel odd and he didn’t like the stare the man gave little Les. The eyes were the coldest ice blue he’d ever seen.

“Yes?”

“Perhaps you could help me. I’m trying to find my son.” The man spoke in harsh voice, David could feel the cold in the man’s breath.

“What makes you think I know your son?” he asked. The man frowned, making him seem downright dangerous.

“He was a newsboy, several years ago. Perhaps he still is. Do you know Francis Sullivan?” the name caused David to pause. Francis Sullivan, Jack’s real name and the name he’d promised never to call him. He studied the man. This was Jack’s father? Well, as good as the man’s intentions might be, David knew he couldn’t possibly let his friend’s secret go. He was one of the few who knew Jack’s real name, or his family history, what little Jack had been willing to let go. It didn’t seem right to tell him. He glanced at the clock above the square. Close to dinnertime, Jack should be at the restaurant by now.

His thoughts were interrupted by a cough and he realized the man was still waiting for an answer.

“Well, the name sounds familiar. But I’ve only been a newsie about a year or two. But I know someone who might know.” Just as he was about to give the man a few more details, the very topic of their conversation rounded the corner, his arm around Racetrack as they laughed, Jack holding a cigarette out of the younger, shorter newsie’s reach.

“Hey! Jack!” he called, when his friend had reached half a block away. Jack looked up and grinned, waving, Race too. Then both their eyes rested on the man beside David.

He saw a strange expression he’d never seen on Race’s face, as if he was confused and was trying desperately to remember something just out of his reach. But it was Jack’s face that startled him. It was full of fear, naked unclosed fear. He looked as if his worst nightmare had just come true. David approached his friend, noticing Race’s face get twisted up even more and glance at his friend. Suddenly, Jack seemed to get over his shock, grabbed the front of Race’s shirt in one hand and David’s arm in the other and turned away, taking off at a full run. He heard shouting behind him and turned to see the man chasing them.

He followed Jack as he turned corner after corner and wondered if Jack even knew where he was going. Les trailed behind, until David took pity on him and scooped him into his arms.

Three blocks later, David realized they had turned onto his street and motioned to Jack and Race to follow him up to his apartment house. The four of them dashed up the hall and burst into the small apartment, Mr. and Mrs. Jacobs looking quite startled as four boys tumbled into their apartment, and slammed the door shut behind them.

“Boys, what happened?” Mr. Jacobs asked, noticing the panting of his two sons. Jack shook his head, and his eyes widened as a fist pounded on the door. In an instant, he had grabbed Race, hissed to the Jacobs’s, “ We ain’t heah!” and dove under the bed. MO< Les grabbed a blanket and hung it over the edge of the bed, allowing it to cover the two friends beneath it. It was only after David made sure his friends were hidden that he allowed the door to open.

Jack shivered under the bed, even though Race was pressed close. He felt as if he were seven again, still protecting his little brother. Race glanced at him and his face looked so confused. Jack put a finger to his lips and they listened.

“I’m sorry ta bodda you, but I came lookin’ for me sons. I saw ‘em come in heah wid yer boy.” Jack peeked out from under the lace to see the hated man standing there, looking extremely worried as he wrung his bowler hat in his hands. Jack knew the wringing of the hat was not from worry, but just because he didn’t have Jack’s own neck in his hands.

“I’m sorry. There’s no one here other than my children.” Mrs. Jacobs answered. “Isn’t there, David?” David nodded.

“I split up with my friends a block ago, sir. Maybe you should go look for them on the street. Besides, how do you know they were your sons?” The man growled and Jack involuntarily shuddered and winced. Race frowned again and patted Jack’s shoulder. His hand involuntarily slipped into Jack’s and he felt like they were children again, in the dark days when he was frightened and Jack was always there for him, those dim and distant days that reached back as far as his memory would go.

“ Wid dose faces? I’d know from any distance. Dose boys look like a spittin’ image of their muddas.” David didn’t seem to be buying it. Jack saw him cross his arms.

“Look, I jist wanna see me sons. I know dey blame me for deir mudda, for leavin’ em. I made some mistakes and I jist wanna set tings right. Please tell me wherah dey are.”

Crocodile tears, Jack thought angrily. If he felt that way, he wouldn’t have done what he did, he wouldn’t have- no! he shook his head, he wouldn't think about it. Francis Sullivan was dead.

“Sons?” David spoke up.

“ Francis and Anthony. Little Anthony was only foah when I left. For deir mudda’s sake, please.” Jack was shaking with anger by now. How dare he even speak Tony’s name? How dare he? And for their mother’s sake? How pathetic did this man get? He never did anything for her sake when he was alive, why start now? Besides, Tony had been six. The hand around his was painfully tight. He glanced at Race. Race’s eyes were shut tight and Jack wondered if he was remembering.

David must had seen through it because he spoke then.

“Well, I'll talk to Ja-, er, Francis the next time I see him.” and with that the door was shut. Jack felt it hard to crawl out from under the bed, he was shaking so hard. Race climbed out behind him and they both glanced at each other for a moment.

“Jack, what was that all about?” Mr. Jacobs asked.

“Nothin’, jist some family buzness.” He answered. “Sorry to involve you like dat, but I ain't got no desire ta face that man taday or evea.”

“Who was he?” David asked, desperate for answers. There was a long pause in which a thick tension filled the room. All eyes were aimed at Jack who stared at the floor, looking nothing like the animated newsie who’d stirred up the whole of New York the previous summer. All but Race.

“So dat’s him, eh?” he spoke, ending the silence. Jack gave him a long hard look and nodded. David frowned.

“That’s who? Who is he, Jack?” Jack still refused to answer, but after a few seconds he lifted his head to look Race in the eye.

“Ya mind?” His younger friend shook his head.

“He's bound ta find out sonna or lata.” Jack sighed and sat down at the table. Race took the chair next to him, leaning back. David sat next to Jack on his other side and his parents took seats across from them. Les found himself on his father’s knee, while Sarah pulled up a stool. Jack ran his fingers through his hair.

“Dat man wus our fadda.” He said quietly. There was a stunned silence.

“Our?” David replied. Jack nodded.

“Yeah, Race’s and mine.” Race took a long breath and glanced out the window. David could only stare. How could the two of them be brothers? They looked almost nothing alike. Jack was tall, with light brown hair and light eyes, a prefect example of an Irish boy. Race, however, was short and dark, with dark brown hair and brown eyes. He seemed like the prefect Italian, but for his last name which suggested some Irish in him.

“Brothers? You two?”

“Half. Me ma married his pop.” Race said. Jack nodded.

“Yeah, me ma wus already dead and she wus da closet ting I eva had ta a mudda.” Jack agreed.

“Would you mind telling us why, then, you don’t want your father to find you?”

“It’s a long story.” Jack said, glancing at Race.

“We have plenty of time.” Mr. Jacobs told them. Jack sighed and glanced again at Race. David was surprised to see the usually smart-ass loudmouth looking so lost and afraid. He wondered how old he really was.

Jack sighed and began. “Fine, but ya can’t tell nobody. Da only ones dat know is Medda and Spot. Nobody else.” David agreed and his family was right behind him. Jack took a deep breath and began.

The little boy seated on the steps of the train station in Santa Fe seemed no different than any other. Except that he was. He was so very different though he would not prove himself until years later.

So now, this four year old with light sandy hair and a smile that had once lit up Manhattan was all alone. His older brother had been gone almost an hour, gone to let the family they had never met know that they had arrived. Little Francis Sullivan wished that his mother was here. But she wasn’t. She was underground back in New York, and their father had shipped him and his older brother out here, and out of the way. He had simply woken them up one morning and told them to gather their belongings and placed them at the station with two tickets in their hands. He patted their heads and said he would send for them when the time came.

Two weeks later, they had found themselves in Santa Fe, alone and looking for Jack Kelly, their grandfather.

The big rancher picked his little grandson up an hour later and deposited him onto his horse. Little Francis loved it and laughed the whole way. Their grandmother had set aside a small room near the top of the ranch house for her two grandsons and began to spoil them silly. She baked them cookies, and warm apple pie, and many other delicious things they had not had since their mother died.

Their grandfather took them on rides around his small ranch and taught them how to rustle cattle or stop a stampeding herd. He loved them both, the big gruff man. But he fell in love with the youngest. There was something about that boy that was special, he would be someone someday.

Almost a year later, the telegram came that summoned the boys back to New York. With tears and hugs, they bordered the train again and sped off back to their home. But little Francis would always remember that year spent in Santa Fe, and long for it again.

When they arrived, what they found was a shock. Their father was waiting for them, his arm around a young woman with long dark hair and pretty dark eyes. She was their new mother, he said, and he expected them to treat her as such. But what surprised Francis the most was not the woman, but the small little three-year-old boy she held in her arms. He looked so much like her, same eyes, same hair, and Francis hated the child.

He hated this woman who had taken his mothers place and could hardly speak English, and he hated the boy who had taken his place as the baby of the family.

But one day, when he came home from school, on his birthday, he found a small batch of cookies waiting for him. They were light and just a bit spicy, but delicious. And all for him.

“I know I will never replace your mother,” the young wife said to him, in her kind voice. “And I do not wish to try. I am Anthony’s mother, but not yours. But I would like to be your friend, if you let me.” It was her smile, her kind and loving smile that won him over. And the little boy threw himself into her arms.

From then on, they were a family, but only the three children and the mother. The father, was in all frankness, a brute, and a mistake to marry. It had killed his previous wife and he was a tyrant in his own home.

He took every penny he and his wife, who made a few by simple lace making, earned and poured it away in drink. If she dared argue, he hit her. And hard. He made no exceptions for his boys, even the baby.

Anthony soon became Francis’s favorite. It was good he liked him, for the younger boy clung to him like glue. He took the boy everywhere, and was proud of him. Both boys were quick, so very quick at learning, and they took in everything.

Marinna Casella Higgins Sullivan loved it when she saw them playing. She felt bad for the boys who would probably never remember their real mother, and for her own son who would never know his real father, Sean Higgins, a fun loving Irish man in the British army who had fallen in love with the small beautiful Italian girl and they’d married. But he’d died soon after Anthony’s birth ,and his wife, without options, had fled to America where she’d met a man who seemed to be prefect, but time was showing his true nature.

Soon the fights grew worse, the father began to hit her harder, so hard she couldn’t get out of bed the next day. Years had passed and Francis was seven, Anthony five. The eldest brother, James had fled that night, unable to handle it and leaving his brothers to fend for themselves.

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