The cemetery at Our Lady of Charity was quiet that evening in May as Ghost wandered in after a long day of selling papers. She'd made it a habit to come visit her sister's grave at least once a week, usually more. She hadn't been by in almost two now; things had been so busy at the Lodging House, what with the new girls and all. Kneeling by the edge of the small grave, she rested her chin on her knees and studied the bunch of wilted daisies that lay against the wooden cross. There were almost always fresh flowers on Amy's grave, every time she came. Daisies usually, one day about two weeks ago it had been daffodils. Who put them there remained a mystery to Ghost.
     "She's one of the lucky ones," a gentle voice remarked from behind her, and Ghost turned to see one of the nuns from the convent approaching, on her way to vespers.  Ghost had seen her in the cemetery before, praying for the souls of the deceased paupers. She had a sweet, kind face beneath her wimple, and Ghost found herself returning that gentle smile.
     "What do you mean?" the newsgirl asked, curious. The nun paused beside her at the edge of the grave.
     "None of the others have anyone come to visit them," she explained quietly. "They've all been forgotten, but this one, this Amelia Cavanaugh, she hasn't been forgotten." She smiled at Ghost.
     "Well, she gots me, anyway," Ghost shrugged.
The nun nodded. "Yes, and the boy as well," she said, and Ghost blinked up at her in confusion.
     "What boy?" she demanded.
     "The one who brings the flowers," the sister replied, indicating the daisies. "He comes about once a week, replaces the flowers, pulls out any weeds that have grown up. Isn't he your brother?" she asked.
 Ghost continued to stare in astonishment. A boy? But who?
     "No, we don't got no bruddah," she admitted. "It was jus' me an' her."
 The nun shook her head as she straightened to standing.
     "Well, someone else hasn't forgotten your sister either," she said, giving Ghost a kind pat on the shoulder as she moved away. Her footsteps faded and Ghost was alone again.
 A boy? Who could it be? Amy didn't have any friends, and she certainly never had any boyfriends, who would care enough to put flowers on her grave?
     Cowboy.
 It had to be Cowboy. Who else? He was one of the only people Amy had ever trusted, and although Ghost didn't think they'd ever been particularly close, it would make sense, and there was no else it could be. I wonder why he never told me, she thought, resolving to ask him about it the next chance she got.
Closing her eyes, she said a silent hello to her sister.
It was a little game she played inside her head. She'd talk to her sister in her thoughts, and imagine Amy's reply. It wasn't the same as having a real conversation with Amy, obviously, but it made her feel a little better anyway.
     Heyah Amy.
     Hey kiddo, how's it rollin'?
     Amy, what's it like in heaven?
     Kinda borin', no pockets ta pick, no scabs ta soak, not much ta do.
Ghost choked on a tiny giggle at that, trying to imagine her sister with wings and a halo, sitting on a cloud, strumming serenely at a golden harp. The image was so funny she laughed out loud to herself.
     I miss you a lot, Amy.
     I know ya do kid, but yer doin' real good at da Lodging House an' stuff. Dey's takin' good care a' ya.
     Yeah, I'm doing all right, she told her sister silently. I like bein' a newsie and livin' wit' da goils an' everybody.
     An' da boys too. Can't believe ya went and got ya'self a boyfriend an' everythin', me liddle sistuh's all grown up.
Just then, Ghost's acute hearing picked up the sound of footsteps around the corner of the chapel. In a smooth movement, she rose to her feet and turned to see someone coming around the edge of the stone wall. The boy stopped in his tracks and fixed an inscrutable, narrow-eyed look on her.

     Ghost's jaw dropped and panic swept over her as she took in the crimson suspenders, the slingshot, and the gold-tipped cane. She'd always been afraid of Spot Conlon, probably always would be despite the fact that he was Matchie's twin brother, as well as Lily's boyfriend; she'd never forget the day Amy had shot off her mouth to him in front of half his gang of newsies. The look of tightly controlled rage on his face had frightened her more than an entire pack of rabid dogs. He wasn't very big, but there was small limit to the damage he could inflict, should he choose to do so.
She started backing away fearfully, then her gaze lighted on the small bunch of daisies he held in one tanned hand.
     "Spot?" she blurted out, unable to believe her eyes. The leader of the Brooklyn newsies looked at her with a cool, enigmatic expression.
     "Heyah Chloe," he said emotionlessly as he approached.
     "Yer da one bringin' da flowers?" she exclaimed.
Spot shrugged as he stepped past her and replaced the wilted daisies with the fresh ones.
     "What's it to ya?" he wanted to know.
     "But, you an' Amy hated each udda," Ghost protested, fear forgotten in her confusion.
Spot slanted an amused look at her as he crouched by the edge of her sister's grave. "Dat whatcha think?"
Ghost continued to boggle. "But you t'rew us outta Brooklyn," was all she could think of to blurt out.
     "Yeah, well," Spot shrugged his thin shoulders. "Flip was thinkin' a' leavin' anyway." Ghost opened and closed her mouth, stunned speechless as she gaped at him. "Amy had guts, ya hafta give 'er dat. She desoived bettuh den dis," he said, frowning at the lonely mound of earth.
     "But, why would ya bring 'er flowers?" Ghost struggled to understand whatever could have possessed the notorious Brooklyn boy to do something so… well, nice.
     "Somebody's gotta," came the nonchalant reply. He straightened up and turned to look at her. "Got a problem, wit' it?" he wanted to know, and Ghost was reminded that this boy before her was indeed the most feared and respected newsie in New York.
     "A' course not," she blurted out, swallowing nervously. "T'anks," she added weakly as Spot stared at her with narrowed eyes. She touched a self-conscious hand to the bruises that were only just starting to fade around her eyes and mouth. That cool gaze was speculative as it ran over her injuries, missing nothing.
     "Ya all right?" he demanded brusquely. Ghost nodded, avoiding his eyes by studying the scuffed toes of her ragged shoes. "Den I'll see ya 'round," he said, and she looked up as he turned away.
     "Yeah," she whispered, and watched in silence as he walked away across the deserted cemetery.
She watched him go, then turned to look down at the fresh flowers lying against the wooden cross. Well, didn't that just beat all, as her mother used to say.
     Amy? Youse nevuh gonna believe dis one...
     I knows it, kid. I always figuhed dere was more to da liddle joik den he let on.
She had to smile at that.
     I gots ta go, Amy, I'll be back soon.
     Shoah, kiddo, be careful.
Biting her lip, Ghost started to turn away, then turned back, wishing she knew the right words to say a prayer or something for her sister. Even when her mother had been alive, religion had never been an integral part of her life.
     And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.
It was something she'd heard Bethany say one night; she didn't know exactly what it meant, but it sounded as much like a prayer as anything she'd ever heard in her life. Murmuring the words under her breath, she cast a parting glance at the wooden cross bearing her sister's name, and turned to walk away into the gathering twilight.
     And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.