The Debt
Prequel to "Ghost of a Chance"
 

September, 1897

 They were gaining on him. The thin blonde boy pushed himself to run faster, but the exhaustion and hunger were slowing him down, making him vulnerable. It was only a matter of time before the ones who were chasing him caught up, then he wouldn't have to worry about sleeping, he'd probably be dead. He pumped his long legs as fast as they would move, but it didn't seem to be fast enough. Something protruding from the alley floor tripped him up and he went sprawling into the dirt. He struggled to his feet as his pursuers rounded the corner and charged towards him. He turned to run, but a beefy hand closed around his upper arm and he was slammed into the brick wall so hard he saw stars.
 "Dis is whatcha get when you goes stealin' in my territory," a thick, guttural voice hissed, and a fist smashed into his left eye. The pain wasn't too bad, certainly no worse than the beatings that had been a regular part of his life before his old man had gone to prison. The boy forced himself to stand up straight and not flinch from the attack, but a heavy fist in his stomach made him double over, another blow to his back drove him to his knees. A nasty creature named Cain Monroe ran the petty crime in lower Manhattan. A young man, a former newsboy, he had moved up to small scams and low-scale thievery when he discovered there was far more money to be made there than hawking headlines. No one committed a small crime in the area without his knowledge, and anyone who did was strongly advised to pay him a small token, or his goons would be after them. The unfortunate boy, fairly new to the streets and unaware of the hierarchy, had pinched a small amount of food from a vendor, not realizing he was doing it in plain sight of two of Cain's brawniest henchmen.
 "Leave 'im alone, Cain, 'e don't know no bettuh," a new voice filtered through the red waves of pain that surrounded the boy.
 "This ain't yer fight, Flip," came the reply. "If he don't know no bettuh den he'd better learn real quick."
 "I t'ink he's learned all right," the new voice was light and vaguely amused, with not a smidgen of the respect or fear that were usually shown Cain Monroe.
 The boy on the ground struggled to his feet and wiped at the stream of blood flowing from his nose. His vision was hazy with pain and exhaustion, but he could make out the stocky figure of Cain standing above him, chewing on a fat cigar. Drawing on the last reserves of his energy, the boy threw himself at the petty criminal, taking him by surprise and knocking him into the dirt.
 "Oh, now you've gone and done it," the lighter voice sighed as the two of them rolled in the dirt, exchanging punches. "All right, break it up." A pair of hands grabbed the back of his shirt and the boy let himself be hauled to his feet. He swayed, staggered, and stumbled against the person who had pulled him up.
 "Stay out of it, Flip, he's gonna die," Cain growled, standing up and wiping at his own bloody nose. He was blowing like an overworked horse, and his broad face was an unattractive shade of purple.
 "Oh, leave it alone, Cain," the one called Flip snorted. "Youse soaked him bad enough. He's learned 'is lesson, leave it alone." With that, the boy found himself being hustled away down the alley by the smaller figure. Through the haze of pain, he still managed to be surprised that Cain and his goons didn't follow or even protest. "You all right?" Flip asked him, then the other boy shook his head. "Nah, stupid question, you don't look all right, come on."
 The boy was half led, half dragged down the dark street and around a corner, then in through the partially boarded up window of an abandoned building. He stumbled and allowed himself to drop to the dirt floor, leaning his throbbing head back against the cement wall.
 "Heah," a piece of bread was pressed into his hand and he tore it apart ravenously. "What was ya doin', tryin' to soak Cain when youse half dead as it is? Dat was some stupid," the other boy grumbled. "What's yer name anyway?"
 "Jack," the boy managed to reply between mouthfuls of stale bread. "Jack Kelly."
 "I'm Flip. Heah, drink dis," he handed Jack a small bottle. Jack took a sip and gagged as fiery liquid burned its way down his throat. Flip snickered softly. "Not as good a drinkah as you is a fightah, huh?" he commented.
 "Dis yer place?" Jack wanted to know, his voice husky with pain and exhaustion.
 "Nah, jus' a place, I sleeps heah sometimes if I gots to." Jack could make out the other boy's smaller figure in the darkness as he shrugged. "Heah, speakin' a' sleep," he handed Jack a scratchy, torn blanket. "Get some. You needs it."

**

 Jack felt as though he'd been run over by an entire team of carriages, and a groan escaped him as he dragged himself into a sitting position. Weak sunlight filtered in through the boarded up windows, and for a moment, he couldn't remember where he was. Then it all flooded back to him: Cain Monroe, the fight, a kid named Flip. He was alone in the room, which was obviously the basement of a condemned building. It was mostly empty except for a few discarded pieces of wood and the blanket that had been covering him.
 A quick once over told him he was mostly unhurt, no bones broken, just a painful black eye, a split lip and bruises on nearly every inch of his lanky frame. Nothing serious. He was slowly getting to his feet when the boards over the window began to be pushed out of place. He flattened himself against the wall, readying for a possible attack, but the figure that appeared was a fairly familiar one.
 "Hey, youse awake," Flip grinned, and in the daylight Jack was astonished to discover that the smaller boy was actually a girl in boys' clothes. She was small and thin, with a stubborn chin and a pert nose, and appeared to be around Jack's own age of fifteen.
 "Youse a goil?" he blurted out and Flip laughed.
 "Not too quick, is ya?" she asked, holding out a small bundle to him. He accepted it, and although he kept his expression indifferent, he was delighted to discover sausages and bread wrapped inside.
 "How come you helped me last night?" he asked, taking out a sausage. Flip took off her hat, shaking out long strawberry blonde hair as she sat down on the dirt floor.
 "'Cause I knew it would piss Cain off," she replied with a smirk. "He t'inks he's this big shot who owns dis territory, but he's just a stupid thug wit' no brains."
 Jack absorbed this information as he polished off the rest of the food Flip had bought him. "Much obliged to ya," he muttered, hating to be grateful to anyone for anything. The girl shrugged her thin shoulders.
 "Stay outta Cain's way, he ain't too bright, but he's real nasty," she advised and Jack nodded.
 "Yeah, I noticed," he grumbled, gingerly fingering the swelling around his left eye. "T'anks."
 "Nuthin to it," she shrugged. "So, you runnin' away or what?" she wanted to know. Jack eyed her suspiciously.
 "What's it to ya?" he demanded, and the girl snorted.
 "Nuthin', just makin' conversation," she replied.
 Jack sighed. "Yeah, got outta da orphanage my parents left me in when dey went out west," he mumbled out his story reluctantly.
 Flip shrugged. "You oughtta do somethin' other den stealin', you ain't no good at it," she said. Jack bristled at the criticism.
 "And you is, I guess?" he shot back, and Flip laughed out loud.
 "I'm the best, everybody knows that," she said nonchalantly. "You oughtta get a job or somethin', at one a' da factories maybe." Jack shrugged. He didn't really care to admit that he'd tried that already, and no one was about to hire a grimy boy with no place to live. "I know what you can do," Flip announced abruptly, and Jack looked at her warily. Whatever she suggested couldn't be pleasant. "You can be a newsboy," she said, and shot him a grin that lit up her face. Jack stared at her for a moment.
 "A newsie," he repeated doubtfully. "Sellin' newspapers."
 "It ain't hard," Flip was going on. "You'd have a place ta live at one a' dere lodgin' houses, an' you could stay outta Cain's way," she smirked at him. "'Cause ya know I can't always be around to save yer ass."
 "I didn't need yer help," he snapped in irritation. She rolled her eyes.
 "Shoah ya didn't," she grinned, getting to her feet. "Anyways, I gots ta go. See ya 'round." With that, she headed for the boarded up window.
 "Um, hey, Flip?" Jack stopped her hesitantly. She turned to him with uplifted eyebrows. "T'anks," he muttered begrudgingly, and she flashed a smile that was unlike her trademark arrogant grin.
 "Yer welcome," she said, and then she was gone, leaving Jack alone.
 A newsie, huh? Well, now that was a thought.
 

*******

 January, 1899

 The snow felt like little bullets slicing through his aching skin. The wind howled, and he could barely see more than a few inches past his own nose. Whatever had possessed him to try to sell the rest of his papers in this weather? He should have gone back to the Lodging House with the other boys, but no, stubborn, headstrong Cowboy had to make a point and sell everything he had, even when all the customers had already retreated inside from the storm. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
 Jack stumbled in the deepening snow and fell to his knees, scattering papers onto the sidewalk. Cursing under his breath, he began to gather them up, trying not to think about how cold he was, how badly frozen his fingers and toes felt.
 "I always knew you didn't have no brains," a feminine voice remarked sardonically from nearby. Jack slipped on some ice as he jerked around at the familiar sound. He hadn't heard that voice in quite a long time, but he recognized it instantly. "What the heck is ya doin' out heah in dis weather?"
 "Heyah Flip," he managed to greet her through chattering teeth. The girl rolled her eyes at him as she came closer. She was bundled up in a mismatched coat and hat, probably stolen from somewhere. Nearly everything Flip owned was stolen somehow.
 "Hey ya'self, youse half frozen," she sighed and shook her head. "I'd like ta know whatcha would do if I wasn't around to save yer ass," she muttered, grabbing him by the arm and pulling him along. Jack was too tired and too cold to resist, so he allowed himself to be led along the snow-filled avenue.
 What seemed like an eternity later, Flip hustled him into the basement of an abandoned tenement, similar to the one where she'd taken him the first day they had met, when she had rescued him from the tender mercies of Cain Monroe. This particular basement was obviously Flip's current home; there was evidence of a recent fire in the crumbling fireplace, and a cast-off mattress was piled high with blankets. They climbed in a window, and Flip closed it up with several pieces of heavy wood. She tossed a tattered blanket at him, and Jack wrapped himself in it while Flip busied herself with lighting a fire. Before long, there was a merry blaze burning, and with its heat warming him, Jack no longer felt like he was turning into an icicle.
 "God, youse some stupid," Flip grumbled as she sat down on the edge of the mattress and unwound her ragged scarf.
 "Part a' me charm," Jack shot back, feeling better now that he was out of the storm. Flip rolled her eyes in disgust.
 "Whatever ya wanna call it, Cowboy," she snorted, then "You hungry?" she asked, and rolled her eyes again when Jack nodded. "A' course youse hungry, what a stupid question," she muttered. "I'd shoah like ta know what you'd do if I hadn't 'a been out dere."
 "I'd manage," Jack snapped, accepting the bread she offered. This was certainly a familiar scenario, the abandoned basement, Flip helping him, then feeding him. His pride rankled at the fact that she was right, that she did indeed seem to show up when he needed help. He'd come a long way from the scared, lonely urchin she'd rescued from Cain Monroe; he was a newsboy now, known around New York as Cowboy, the leader of the Manhattan newsies, not as widely known or as feared as, say, Spot Conlon, but doing just fine on his own. He glowered in silence as he ate, hating the fact that he'd put himself in the position to accept help from, of all things, a girl.
 "What's da matta wit'chu?" Flip demanded, plainly amused. She looked thinner than he remembered, obviously winter was difficult for pickpockets too. "I hoid youse doin' real good fer ya'self now, a newsie an' all," she remarked with a certain amount of satisfaction as she cracked open a bottle. Jack shrugged and held his hands out to the fire.
 "Yeah, what's it to ya?" he wanted to know, and Flip snickered.
 "Oh gimme a break, Cowboy, I just saved yer ass, and youse gonna give me lip? You can go freeze out in da snow fer all I care," she laughed, holding out the bottle to him. Jack accepted it reluctantly.
 "So, how ya been, Flip?" he asked, taking a gulp of the hard liquor. The girl shrugged and lit a cigarette. In the meager light he could see a nasty shiner around her left eye.
 "Survivin', ya know how it is," she replied casually.
 He nodded. He certainly did know how it was. Winter was a bad time for any working kid. He accepted the cigarette she passed to him and took a drag.
 "Heard somethin' 'bout you an' Cain Monroe," he remarked, blowing out some smoke. Flip grinned slightly.
 "Yeah, he ain't runnin' Manhattan no more," she said.
 "How'd ya do that?" Jack wanted to know. All he'd heard was that the local thug had been run out of the borough. Flip shrugged.
 "Jus' wasn't gonna pay 'im for woikin' in his so-called territory, so I got some a' da udda people who woiked 'round heah to stop payin' 'im an' so den he had ta leave," she explained. Jack nodded, impressed. The old divide and conquer theory, he'd used it himself in a few territory fights. "Last I heard he was in Harlem," she added, drawing on the cigarette.
 "I heard he was in Jersey," Jack remarked with a grin. Flip made a face.
 "Who cares? He's gone, dat's all dat counts," she said. Dismissing it, she stood up and went over to a battered trunk in the corner. "We's probably gonna be heah fer a while, ya wanna play some cards?"
 

**
"Youse got a real name, or is Flip what yer muddah called ya?" Jack wanted to know, tossing down his cards several hours later. She had beaten him three times in a row and it was really starting to get on his nerves. Flip arched an eyebrow at him.
 "What's it to ya?" she demanded. Jack shrugged.
 "Jus' wonderin'," he replied. She rolled her eyes.
 "You'll laugh," she sighed, and Jack grinned hugely.
"Nah, I won't," he said.
"Yeah, ya will."
"Listen," he leaned forward. "I'll tell ya mine if ya tell me yers."
Flip looked at him in surprise. "Jack ain't yer real name?"
He shook his head. "Nope, made it up, don't tell nobody, all right?"
"All right, den," Flip sighed reluctantly. "Me muddah called me Amelia, but everybody else called me Amy."
"Amelia!" Jack hooted with laughter, earning himself a sharp kick in the shins. "Yer name's Amelia? You don't look like no Amelia!"
"Shuddup, Cowboy," she snapped peevishly as he snickered. "So you said you'd tell yers," she reminded him. Jack swallowed his laughter.
"Can't tell nobody, dey's lookin' fer me an' stuff," he said, serious now. Flip - no, Amy- nodded.
 "Shoah."
 "Francis," he admitted, blushing a little. Amy threw her head back and howled in amusement.
 "FRANCIS?" she laughed. "No wonder ya changed it to Jack!"
 Jack shrugged. "Dey's lookin' for Francis Sullivan, not Jack Kelly, it made sense ta me," he explained, and Amy nodded.
 "S'pose so," she agreed. "Me muddah used ta always say 'don't be flip wit' me, girl,' so, after a while, it started bein' a liddle joke wit' her, callin' me Flip. It stuck after she died," she added nonchalantly.
 "Me muddah called me Frankie," Jack admitted, gathering up the cards and beginning to shuffle them. "I always hated it."
 "I guess so," Amy snickered, earning herself a dark look from her companion. "So, Frankie, youse gonna deal or what?" she grinned.
Jack sighed and did as he was told. They played a few more rounds, then Amy tossed down her cards and sprawled back on the mattress to take a gulp of whiskey. The fire was keeping the room quite cozy and Jack was feeling more relaxed than he had in a while.
"So how come you don't get a real job?" he asked, coming over to sit down on the mattress beside her. Amy eyed him from below a thick tangle of strawberry hair as she sat up.
"What do I need a real job for?" she demanded. "I do good at what I do."
"Yeah, but you could do somethin' else, and not hafta worry about da bulls or stuff like dat," Jack pointed up. Amy shrugged and took another sip of the alcohol. "You could even be a newsie," he suggested. "We's got girl newsies at da lodging house, ya know."
Amy snorted loudly. "I don't t'ink so, Cowboy," she replied, picking up the discarded deck of cards and shuffling them.
"Why not?" Jack persisted. "Den you'd have a place ta live an' a honest job," he offered.
"Who says I wants a honest job?" she snapped testily. "I'm good at what I does, dats what counts."
Jack shrugged his shoulders. "I guess you t'ink you couldn't do it or somethin'," he glanced at her to see if she would rise to the bait. To his surprise, she was still shuffling the cards, stubbornly avoiding his gaze. "What's da mattah?" he demanded, disconcerted by her frown. Amy shrugged and dropped the cards.
"I can't be a newsie 'cause I can't read too good," she finally admitted reluctantly. "I went ta school fer a while, but den Mama got sick an' somebody had ta take care a' her." She turned a challenging look on him as he gaped at her.
"You can't read at all?" he asked, surprised. Amy was glowering now, plainly embarrassed by her admission.
"A' course I kin read, you idiot, just not too good," she snapped. "Forget about it, all right?"
"Ya don't really need ta know how ta read ta be a newsie, but if ya want, I could help ya," Jack offered and Amy glared at him.
"Stuff if, Cowboy, I don't need nobody's help."
 The warning look on her face stopped him from saying anything else, so he shrugged and let the topic drop. There was an awkward pause as the wind howled from outside and the fire crackled cheerfully in response to the storm's lonely wailing. Finally, Amy yawned and stretched out on the mattress. "Grab dat blanket ovuh dere, wouldja, Cowboy?" she said, resting her head on her folded arms.
 Jack got up and grabbed the blanket, tossing it over to her. In the process he noticed a small pile of carefully stashed male clothes, too small to be Amy's, obviously belonging to somebody else. "Dese yer bruddah's?" he wanted to know. He'd never heard it mentioned that Flip Cavanaugh had a brother, but it was the logical explanation. Amy barely looked up from rearranging the blanket around her and only grunted in reply. "Where is he?" Jack asked.
 "St. Mary's Orphanage," she answered absently. "Warmer and safer in da winter, ya know?" she explained and Jack nodded.
 "Yeah, I know," he agreed, then frowned as something occurred to him. "So, where am I s'posed ta sleep?" he demanded, looking around the small room. Amy rolled her eyes.
 "You got a choice, youse can sleep on da floor, or you can share wit' me," she replied sardonically. "But try anything and I'll soak ya inta next week," she added and Jack laughed out loud as he joined her on the mattress.
 "I'll be a poifect gentleman," he promised and Amy snorted as she reached over and extinguished the single lantern, leaving the fire their only illumination.
 "Dat'll be da day," she muttered and rolled over on her side away from him. Jack lay back and pulled the blanket up to his chin. He was exhausted, but for some reason, sleep wouldn't come. He listened to the storm howl and wondered how long it would be before it abated. "So, when's yer parents comin' ta take ya out west?" Amy finally spoke up into the stillness.
 Jack shrugged. "When dey find da right ranch, I guess," he replied automatically. There was movement from the other side of the mattress as Amy nodded.
 "Dey's been gone a long time, huh?" she asked.
 "Yeah," Jack mumbled, not really wanting to pursue the subject. "What about you, what do ya wanna do, ya know, when youse older?"
 Amy sighed and rolled over onto her back. "When I save up enough money, I wanna go upstate," she replied.
 "What're ya gonna do upstate?" Jack prodded when she didn't elaborate.
 "We's gonna have a farm," came the reply, and Jack choked on a laugh.
 "A farm?" he repeated. "What do you know about runnin' a farm?"
 "About as much as you know about runnin' a ranch," Amy shot back and Jack grinned, knowing she was right.
 "I can't picture you feedin' chickens," he remarked in amusement. Amy sniffed.
 "Yeah, well I can't picture you rustlin' cattle neither so what's yer point?" she demanded. "Now shuddup and go ta sleep." She rolled over so that her back was to him. Jack grinned and adjusted the blanket around him.
 "G'night Amy," he said into the darkness.
 "G'night, Frankie."
**
 The first thing he heard the next morning was the howl of the wind. The storm hadn't gotten any better over night; if anything it had gotten worse.
 Jack groaned and rolled over. The fire had burnt out and the room was dim and freezing. His muscles were stiff from the cold as he sat up and looked around. As he rubbed his hands over his face, there was the scratch of a match being lit and light blossomed in the crumbling fireplace.
 "Youse awake," Amy remarked as she used the same match to light her cigarette.
 "Yeah," he mumbled, watching her come back and sit down on the mattress.
 "Shoah is cold," she added, wrapping herself in one end of the blanket. Her sleep-tousled hair was a riot of red-blonde curls, making her look unusually feminine and vulnerable, two things Amy strove to hide in herself.
Jack nodded. "Yeah, I guess da storm ain't ovuh yet, huh?" he said, tucking the blanket around him and accepting the cigarette she offered him.
 "Nope, youse stuck wit' me a little longer," she replied. "I tried to go out, but the snow's still coming down so hard youse lucky if you can see yer hand in front a' yer face."
 Jack shrugged and took a puff of the cigarette. "Hope dey hold my bunk for me at da lodging house," he muttered. Amy rolled her eyes.
 "I don't t'ink dey'd be givin' away Cowboy's bunk ta nobody," she snorted. There was a silence as they finished the cigarette between them. "Yer parents really ain't out in Santa Fe, is they?" Amy asked abruptly. Jack blinked at her in astonishment.
 "What're you talkin' about?" he demanded, annoyed. The girl shrugged her thin shoulders.
 "You talks in yer sleep ya know. You was havin' a nightmare and stuff," she said quietly. Jack said nothing, frowning stubbornly at the edge of the tattered blanket. "Who's Georgie?" Amy asked, surprisingly gentle, and his gaze flew to hers. Their eyes locked for a long moment, then he looked away.
 "My bruddah," he muttered.
 "Where is he now?" Amy prodded and Jack glared unseeingly down at the dirt floor. There were cigarette butts all over it.
 "He's dead," he snapped back, hoping that would shut her up. Amy nodded slightly.
 "Sorry," she murmured.
 "An' so's my muddah," he went on bitterly. "An' my pops is in jail, happy now?" he demanded.
 Amy sighed. "So why do ya still wanna go ta Santa Fe?" she asked.
 Jack gritted his teeth. This was one conversation he did not want to have. "'Cause its where we was gonna go," he snapped. "We done wit' da interview?"
 "Dat's rough, Cowboy," she said, and to his infinite amazement, she actually reached over and squeezed his hand reassuringly. There was an awkward moment, then she flashed him a rueful smile. "Ya wanna play some more cards?"
        Jack looked at her for a moment, then shrugged. "Yeah, I guess so."
 
*******
 

August 1899, during the newsies strike

 Jack shouldered his papers and kept walking, fighting to close his mind to the guilt and dread he felt. It wasn't his fault, he was doing the best he could, what did any of it matter anymore anyway?
 "Well, I nevuh woulda believed it if I hadn't seen it with me own eyes," a voice remarked from nearby. "Cowboy's turned scab."
 Jack looked up to see Flip shoving off the wall she'd been leaning against. Yet again, he hadn't seen her in quite a while, but that was always her way, popping up when you least expected it.
 "What's it to ya?" he snapped at her. She couldn't have chosen a worse time to resurface in his life. Amy shrugged her slim shoulders and fell into step beside him.
 "Ain't nuthin to me, but it's a whole helluva lot to dose newsies a' yours," she replied. "Nice suit, by da way," she added ironically.
 "It ain't none of yer business, Flip," he muttered. He didn't need to listen to someone else call him a traitor, didn't need to have another person make him feel horrible for doing what was best for himself and everyone involved. No one understood.
 "Yer right, it ain't," she agreed. "So, what'd dey t'reaten ya wit'? Jail?  Locked up in da refuge 'til youse 21? Lockin' everybody up 'til dey's all  21?" she asked.
 "Who says dey t'reatened me?" Jack demanded, looking at her for the first time. There was a nasty bruise on her cheekbone, and it only added to his anger to see it there.
 "Dey had to, you would nevuh have taken no bribe," she shrugged.
 "Maybe I did," Jack shot back, tiring of the conversation. Amy rolled her eyes.
 "Shoah ya did, Cowboy," she snorted, halting abruptly. She grabbed his arm and pulled him around to face her. "Listen, Frankie, I knows you, I knows ya a lot bettuh den dose newsies a' yours do, and I know you wouldn't 'a done dis wit'out a good reason. Pulitzer got to ya somehow."
 Jack glared at the ground, refusing to meet her eyes, pretending he hadn't heard her use his real name. "So what if I did sell 'em out?" he demanded. "Dat's what I did, dat's what I had ta do. It don't mattah no more anyway."
 "You ever thought about what its gonna be like in Santa Fe?" Amy asked abruptly. Jack looked up, startled. "I bet youse nevuh got past thinkin' about getting on a train. You might find it awful lonely out dere wit' no friends and no family wit' ya. Jus' somethin' ta t'ink about," she said. "You started dis thing, its up ta you ta finish it, no mattah what Pulitzer tries ta tell ya," she added as Jack glared at her.
 "You talk too much, Flip," he muttered, turning on his heel and walking away from her. There was an ironic laugh from behind him
 "Dat's what Spot said when da little joik t'rew me outta Brooklyn."
 

********
 

Epilogue: Spring 1900

 Jack crouched by the edge of the grave and stared at the wilted daisy that lay against the base of the cross. It looked terribly sad and lonesome there, that one measly flower, and for a moment, he wished he had brought something to put there too, roses maybe, or even daffodils, but then he realized how Amy would have scoffed at it. He could hear her laughing voice in his head right now "What're ya doin', bringin' me flowers for, Cowboy? Whatta ya think I's goin' be doin' with flowers? I always knew you didn't have no brains!" Grief washed over him. He was no stranger to death; he'd lost his mother and his brother at a young age, but this was different somehow. It was so random and so senseless and so completely and utterly not fair. Amy hadn't deserved this, no one deserved this. It was wrong and he couldn't understand why it happened. Amy had been a lot of things, not all of them good, but most of all she'd been a person, trying to survive, like anyone, and this shouldn't have happened to her.
He remembered her last words to him, asking him to take care of her sister, Chloe. Poor Chloe, having lost the only family she had, Jack knew how that felt. He'd take care of her for Amy if it killed him. He owed Amy that much, for the things she'd done for him, for helping him when he needed it the most, for being his friend when he had no others.
 A cool breeze wafted through the churchyard and Jack shook himself back to reality. Amy would have laughed at him if she'd seen him there, silently waxing sentimental, almost in tears over her. Stop snivelin' Cowboy, people die, dat's da way life goes. Go sell some papes or soak some scabs, do sumthin useful.
 Jack stood up slowly. With a slight, parting smile, he murmured, "Bye Amy," before turning away to head back to the Lodging House.

The End
 
 
 
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