Even from a block away, one could hear the ruckus from the Brooklyn Lodging House as clearly as a church bell before mass on Sunday morning. The small, rundown building was located near the piers, which was fortunate as most of the Brooklyn guys and girls enjoyed a good dive after a long, tough day of carrying the banner.

Pocket entered the lodging house and nodded with a forced smile at Gelling, an older, obese man who was the Kloppman of Brooklyn. As usual, Gelling was seated behind his counter with a huge cigar between his lips and the evening edition in his hands. He barely nodded to the Manhattan newsgirl as she dashed up the stairs to the boys' bunkroom, where the acton seemed to be taking place on that particular evening.

"...jacks are wild," announced Wager, the most avid gambler of Brooklyn (and the boy constantly at odds with Racetrack), as he dealt cards to several other newsies gathered around his bunk. His eyes were solemn as he surveyed his hand and then turned to his opponents with a fiercely challenging stare.

"...visit Harlem tahmarrah," Port was telling his friends, Retriever and Huck, "ya guys wanna come along?"

The Brooklyn newsgirls, most definitely the toughest and flirtiest around, were gathered in a corner of the room and discussing Cardinal's latest boyfriend. All expect for one girl, a quiet, timid-looking brunette who was situated on a nearby bottom bunk with a book clutched in her hands and her eyes locked on the text. Pocket immediately limped to the girl and plunked herself down on the bed. "Heya, Roxy," she greeted.

"Hi, Pock-" Roxy was replying in her usual soft yet bright tone, but then caught sight of the Manhattan girl's wounds. "What happened?" she inquired, concerned, and tossed her book aside. She began to speak very quickly, questions shooting out of her mouth like bullets out of a shotgun. "Are you okay? Of course you're not okay, that's obvious. Did the Delancy brothers do this to you? Do the Manhattan newsies know? When did it happen? Do you-"

"Whoa, slow down," Pocket besought and raised her hand to her forehead. "Ya're givin' me a headache, Roxy."

The other girl blushed, abashed. "Oh, sorry. Let's start with what happened."

Pocket began her tale, speaking o everything from Blitz's first visit to the beating from Spit and Dragon to Race's rage. Roxy made no comment throughout, save the occasional gasp of horror and sigh of sadness. "So I need ta tawk wid da newsies in Manhattan. I didn't do anyt'ing, I sweah," she insisted pleadingly. "Ya believe me, don't ya, Roxy?"

"Of course I do. But what are you doing in Brooklyn?"

"I need ta speak wid Spot," answered Pocket. "He's da only chance I got ta get da oddah newsies ta listen ta me. If he comes wid me, no one'll beat me up befoah I can explain myself. See?"

Roxy nodded understandingly. "Wait here, I'll go get him." She leapt up and disappeared into the next room for a moment. The Manhattan newsgirl was certain if anyone could convince Spot to speak with her, it would be Roxy. She was the role Brooklyn newsgirl who hadn't been romantically involved with the famed leader, and it was obvious Spot respected her (unlike the multitude of girls he dated for mere weeks). Furthermore, Roxy, as the sweetest newsie in the city, knew how to deal with Spot even when he was in the most violent of tempers. But Pocket couldn't help breathing an audible sigh of relief when the leader of Brooklyn appeared with Roxy at his side.

They boy sat on the bed facing Pocket, and Spot studied her injuries with carefully hidden surprise. "So, what's dis about?" he questioned directly and made no direct inquiries as to her wounds.

For once she swiftly related her tale since the leader of Brooklyn was obviously in no mood for her usual hours of rambling. "I need your help, Spot. I need ta explain ta da newsies what really happened. Maybe I can help dem get deir stuff back, too, but dey'll nevah listen ta me alone. Dey'd be more inclined ta hurl me out a window, first," she explained with more confidence than she felt possible at that point in time. For a split second during her speech, she found her subconscious remarking, Wow, goil, ya're tawkin' ta Spot Conlon, leadah of Brooklyn, and not even flinchin'.

For a moment after Pocket's beseech, Spot remained gravely silent. Then, eyes still focused gravely on the Manhattan girl, he nodded silently to the girl at his side. "Roxy heah tells me I should go along wid ya. Why should I, Pocket?"

She was quite surprised at this inquiry, but then caught sight of the testing gleam in his eyes and knew exactly what he honestly meant. "'Cause if I don't tell dem, dey'd lose all respect for me and I don't want dat ta happen. Dey mean more ta me dan anyone else and I couldn't stand it if dey t'ought I was nothin' but a lousy pickpocket who'd rob her own muddah."

Spot's expression remained unchanged, and Pocket was terrified that her statement hadn't made even the slightest of differences. Then he nodded very slowly. "Good. Come on, I ain't got all night."

*****

It was nearly one o'clock when the three- Spot, Pocket and Roxy- reached the Lodging House. On any other evening, the building would have been darkened and all of the newsie would have been asleep (or at least in bed). But tonight Kloppman, who had been sent on a wild goose chase for a supposedly harmed newsie (the false information acquired care of a pickpocket), allowed the newsies to remain awake.

Pocket anxiously hid behind Spot as he and Roxy entered the lodging house first, finding several newsies and newsgirls occupying the staircase with identically angered and confused countenances.

"Heya, Spot," Jack greeted grimly as he rose to spit shake with the Brooklyn leader, but then caught sight of the trembling girl behind him. Eyes colder than ice, he snapped at Pocket, "What da hell are ya doin' heah?" Other newsies stood and glowered at the girl as well, all ready to pummel her without a second thought.

"She's gotta tawk ta ya, Jackey-boy," Spot declared firmly, his tone daring anyone to contradict him.

"But don't ya know what-" Shadow was protesting when Roxy, uncommonly forceful, spoke up. "Please, just listen to her." Spot nodded in commanding agreement. At the sight of the silently agreeing but angered nonetheless newsies, the Brooklyn newsgirl nodded to Pocket and offered her a small, encouraging smile.

She drew a deep breath and took a cautious step from behind Spot, who proceeded to lean against a nearby wall and fold his arms over his chest. The newsgirl saw that other newsies had gathered on the staircase as well and were eying her with such vicious contempt that she wanted to bolt away without a word. But a small voice inside her her mind spoke up before her feet got the better of her. Come on, Pocket, jus' tell dem.

"I know ya t'ink I'm back wid da Pickpockets now, or dat I always was, or whatevah," she began uncertainly, shifting her weight from foot to foot in apprehension. "But ya have ta believe me, I'd nevah betray ya like dat. Ya're all so much beddah dan da pickpockets, who don't give a lick about anyone but demselves. Ya're all me family and would neva t'ink of stealin' from ya. Please, ya gotta believe me."

Some newsies cast unsure glances at each other. Finally Violet said, "we found a note, Pocket." She handed the girl the scrap of paper. "What else were we suppose to think?"

Pocket quickly read the note and her head snapped up in shocked anger. "I didn't write dis!" she exclaimed indignantly. "It's not even my handwritin'! Dave, Tornado, ya can tell dem." She pushed the note into the boy's hand, and he and Tornado gazed over it solemnly.

"Yeah, dis ain't Pocket's writin'," Tornado breathed. "She writes beddah den dat."

"She's right," David added with a nod and returned the paper to Jack.

"Den why were ya late tahnight?" Specs skeptically wanted to know. "How'd ya know dat we'd be upset?"

The other newsies seemed impressed by his valid point. Pocket merely rolled her eyes and motioned to the gash on her forehead and her multitude of bruises. "What, ya t'ink I did dis ta myself? Yeah, shoah. Dragon and Spit soaked me good. Ya guys have ta undahstand, da Dodgah won't let a pickpocket jus' leave. He'll get ya back for walkin' out on da pickpockets. And he wanted ya ta t'ink I was nothin' but a no-good, connivin' thief, so dey obviously took your stuff." She motioned to Racetrack, who had hung back with the rest of the Manhattan newsies. "And Race implied what happened, so I kinda figured ya weren't gonna let me jus' waltz in heah. And I wasn't too keen on gettin' anuddah soakin' so I asked Spot and Roxy heah ta help me." She flashed a grateful smile at the two before turning back to the Manhattan newsies with a hopeful countenance. "Ya believe me, don't ya?"

A silence fell and consumed the room for a moment; Pocket was positive her stomach would twist itself sick with worry. Then Racetrack replied, "Yeah, we believe ya, 'Ket."

As Pocket released a sigh of relief, Tornado leapt from the group to throw her arms around her friend. "Aw, goil, I t'ought ya..."

"Yeah, I know," Pocket answered and hugged her friend back tightly. When they broke apart, Pocket turned to the others and admitted, "Ya know, da pickpockets still got your stuff."

"The girl's hinting at something," Twink murmured with a dazzling grin.

Pocket nodded proudly. "Ya don't hang wid da pickpockets and not pick up a few tricks along da way." Her eyes flashed confidently and she called, "Come on, guys, gathah round; I've got a plan."

*****

The Dodger meandered around the Pickpocket building with a wickedly pleased grin on his lips. His followers had just stolen armloads of paraphernalia from the newsies; Spit and Dragon had just beaten Hetty to a bloody pulp; and the former pickpocket had just been made an example of to the other pickpockets, striking even more fear into their hearts. All in all, it had been a good night.

He noticed Blitz in a far corner of the room, not celebrating with the other pickpockets. The boy seemed (could it be?) remorseful. The Dodger immediately decided to put a stop tot his and stomped over to Blitz with an angry, dangerous expression.

"Whadda ya doin' heah, Blitz?" the Dodger drawled as he stood before the boy, his eyes becoming slits. "Why ain't ya wid da oddahs?"

At the sound of his boss' vehement voice, Blitz instantaneously leapt to his feet out of automatic respect. "Uh, no reason, boss, just feelin' a liddle sick tahnight. Dat's it, really. Prob'ly got a cold or somet'ing."

With a speed that would have shocked viper, the Dodger slammed the boy into the wall with a force that caused the other pickpockets to cease their festivities and study the situation in anxiety. Blitz's heart stopped as the Dodger glowered at him and pressed the boy harder to the stone wall, and had to wonder if his boss was going to murder him right then and there.

"DON'T LIE TA ME!" he screamed viciously, teeth flashing like a wolf's before it devours its prey. Then he lifted one hand into the air and punched Blitz so hard in the stomach that the boy was certain he'd be ill in that very spot. The Dodger let the pickpocket crumble to the ground in pain, wincing and whimpering like an abused puppy as he clutched his stomach. His boss whirled around to the others and demanded, "ANYBODY ELSE FEELIN' SICK TAHNIGHT?!"

A terrified silence fell as the pickpockets gazed to each other with wide eyes. Suddenly a familiar voice shattered the petrified quiet.

"Heya, guys, how ya been?" Pocket asked with cheerfulness dripping down her tongue as she strolled into the building, smiling brightly. She stood face to face with the Dodger and smirked up at him. "How's it rollin', Dodgah?"

The Dodger was too furious to even speak or move; he could only glare at the former pickpocket and turn evermore crimson with each passing second. The other pickpockets paused apprehensively to see how the Dodger would react, and Spit and Dragon awaited instructions from their boss.

Pocket gazed around to catch sight of the newsies' belongings scattered about. There were Race's cigar and well-thumbed deck of cards; Aussie's guitar stood against a bunk; Painter's pencils were haphazardly tossed about; Specs' pocket watch was dangling from the tattered gray vest of a scrawny pickpocket. The girl stepped away from the Dodger and sauntered around, checking for more items as she went. "Dat was a great plan ya had, Dodgah, really. I mean, I'd nevah t'ought ya'd come aftah me aftah all dat time. And makin' da newsies t'ink I helped ya steal deir stuff, brilliant! Especially aftah Tweedle-Dumb and Tweedle-Dumber beat da livin' hell outta me. Make me suffah on all kinda levels, great, boy!"

She turned to stare at the dodger again, hands folded over her chest in a challenging manner. "But ya know what's wrong wid your plan, Dodgah-boy? Da newsies, dey ain't like da Manhattan Pickpockets. Dey'd believe me if I said I didn't do it. Dey wouldn't take me out ta da back alley ta beat me up. Dey wouldn't jus' let me rot or stawve." Her tone dropped into a fierce manner then, spoken only above a hush though she knew the Dodger caught every word she uttered. "Ya ain't even good enough ta lick deir boots."

Then the chaos ensued.

Newsies from all over the city had entered the building, thanks to several ambassadors to Harlem, Queens, the Bronx, etc. The pickpockets, always ready for a fight, leapt to attention and drew their weapons of choice- either brass knuckles, broken bottles, or chains. Dragon and Spit, being twice the size of most newsies, needed no aid in the battle; they simply enjoyed the feel of weapons. They attacked several newsies at a time without trouble. The newsies, who fought without the assistance of weapons, were dogged and naturally strong, however. It was a brawl like no one had ever seen, even compared to the fights which had occurred during the strike.

The Dodger himself immediately attacked Pocket when she glimpsed up to see the newsies enter the Pickpocket building, slapping her to the ground and proceeding to kick her savagely and repeatedly in the stomach. She winced (still in pain from her previous beating) and her mind began to grow dark. She could hardly feel the sickened lurch of her stomach or each brutal kick. Then she realized that the Dodger was tangling with someone else for a moment, allowing her to rise slowly.

The someone else happened to be Blitz. The redhead boy had swung a chain and whipped it across the Dodger's back to painfully gain his attention. The Dodger whirled around to snarl at the pickpocket with violent fire lighting his eyes, and swore loudly at Blitz.

Pocket grabbed the Dodger's shoulder and twirled him around, and then punched him squarely in the chin. The leader fell onto the cement ground, giving Pocket a chance to smile at Blitz. "T'anks," she murmured, though neither had the time to say anymore. The Dodger had already risen again.

They fought like wildcats for the next several minutes, far more brutally than anyone else. As she glimpsed at Violet, who was fighting alongside Jack, Pocket aimlessly wished that she had longer nails so she could dig her claws into the Dodger's skin. That was the least of what he deserved.

Suddenly the Dodger grasped her arm and twisted it savagely behind her back until she felt tears stinging her eyes. Than he yanked the girl's back to his chest and held her there firmly. Smirking sinisterly and laughing like a victim of severe mental disorder, he extracted a long, sharp-edged knife commonly used by hunters from his pocket and held the weapon to the girl's throat. "How'd ya like dis, Hetty?"

She fell very still at the icy touch of the blade against her skin. She knew perfectly well that if he moved his hand a thousandth of a centimeter nearer to his body, her throat would be sliced open. She also understood that the Dodger was just mad enough to present her with such a demise.

"Beg for your life," he ordered viciously, whispering in her ear. "Beg for me ta take ya back. Tell me ya're sorry."

But Pocket remained silent.

By this time, everyone had caught sight of the two and ceased their battles in terror of murder. The newsies and the pickpockets glimpsed anxiously at each other; would the Dodger dare kill someone?

Racetrack's eyes filled with dark fire at the sight of Pocket with a knife at her throat. Without thinking, he attacked the Dodger like a bolt of violent lightning and knocked both him and his blade to the ground. Race proceeded to beat the leader of the Manhattan Pickpockets mercilessly. Finally, Jack and Spot had to tear Racetrack away from the Dodger before the newsie broke anything more than the Dodger's nose.

With Race securely held back, the Dodger, groaning in pain, slowly rose to his feet and locked eyes with Pocket. Everyone once again fell silent and still, waiting anxiously to see what chaos would ensue.

"You and me," the Dodger growled viciously at Pocket. He didn't seem to take notice of his bloody nose to many bruises. "Right now, da end ta everyt'ing."

For once, Pocket's eyes were grave and replete with fury. She firmly nodded once to her former boss to show her agreement. In the back of her mind, her commonly laughing voice echoed, Man, wid da Dodgah's new injuries, we kinda look alive. But then her solemn manner overpowered her usual humor. But he must really be crazy if he's ready ta fight aftah dat beatin'. Beddah be careful.

"But no one else can interfere," Pocket remarked decisively, and cast a glare at Spit and Dragon. "Dis is between us."

The Dodger didn't feel the need to reply, only smirked wildly and began to circle the newsgirl like a wolf before attacking a defenseless deer. Pocket kept her eyes on the leader of the pickpockets the entire time. The only sounds resonating in her mind were her own, unsteady breaths and the stomping of the Dodger's steel-toed shoes against the cement ground.

Finally the Dodger lunged at the girl, kicking her brutally in the side. She groaned and stumbled backwards a few steps, but did not allow herself to fall. Clutching her stomach, she gazed up into his eyes and was hit with an intense terror. The Dodger eyes weren't just angered, as usual, or even dangerous. He was criminally insane, and clutching his hunting knife with wicked pleasure. What did I get myself inta? Pocket demanded fearfully of herself as she dodged her former boss, who was taking a swipe at the girl with his knife.

Pocket made a few feeble attempts to kick and punch the dodger, but her efforts seemed to be in vain. The dodger only chuckled viciously when she hit him and he didn't seem to feel injured in the slightest. For a while, Pocket could only leap and swiftly avid each swing of her former boss' blade.

What am I gonna do? she screamed inwardly, panicking. Shout for help? dat would only get da oddah pickpockets on me. She rapidly sidestepped the Dodger's lunge. He's biggah, strongah, and wasn't beaten up a thousand times tahnight. He's got ev'ryt'ing I don't got.

Suddenly Pocket realized something, the one thing which would save her life. Sorry, God, jus' dis once, she apologized before moving like a panther, keenly avoiding the hunting knife. She instantly recalled all of the tricks of the pickpockets, which the Dodger had long ago forgotten as he was content to send the others out to work for him, and slipped the knife out of the Dodger's hand. Then she placed the razor sharp point against the sickly pale skin of his throat.

"Guess pickpockets really are forevah, huh, Dodgah?" Pocket drawled confidently as she smirked at the boy, who grew swiftly furious. He tried to grasp the knife, but didn't move more than a millimeter before Pocket pricked his neck with the weapon. A dot of red blood on his white throat was visible to everyone.

"Forget it," she muttered fiercely, her eyes becoming slits. "Ya're ovah, Dodgah. If ya evah try ta mess wid me or da newsies again, if ya mess wid anyone again, if I even see ya again, t'ings won't be so pretty for ya."

For the first time in his life, the Dodger nodded in horrified obedience to an underling. Then eh turned and sprinted out of the building, moving faster than any bolt of lightning, with Spit and Dragon at his heels.

While the newsies and, surprisingly, pickpockets cheered, Pocket breathed a heavy sigh of relief. Suddenly her body reminded her of every piercing ache she had forgotten about during the tension of the fight. She turned to Tornado, who had thrown her arms happily around Pocket, and moaned, "I ain't felt dis bad since dat time I had da flu and was in SoHo, and ran inta dis pack of wild dogs, prob'ly escaped from da zoo or somet'ing. Dey were comin' aftah me like I was da daily special at da butchah's and-" She glanced around at everyone's smiling skepticism. "What? It's true."

"Pocket," Twink chuckled, "you might be a hero, but you certainly aren't the most honest girl in New York."

"If I had da energy ta debate dat," Pocket replied tiredly, "I would."

Race laughed out loud at that, announcing to all those around who could hear him (namely, anyone from Manhattan to Buffalo), "Heya, guys, Pocket finally shut up for once in her life! Who's bettin' she nevah stops talkin' aftah tahnight ta make up for it?!"

Pocket was about to respond that she didn't yammer on all the time, and if she did talk nonstop for a while, it was only because she had something very important to announce. However, the words never made it out of her mouth; they disappeared when Pocket yawned instead and realized that either the ground was quickly rising or she was plummeting towards it. She heard Cricket's voice, thick with her uneducated English accent, but it seemed to be from a million miles away. "Gosh, the girl's about dead!" She vaguely wondered if she was going to slam into the cement once again this evening though never felt the unkind ground; the only place she fell to was a state of peaceful slumber.

*****

Numb was the first thing Pocket could feel, even before she tiredly pushed back her eyelids to gaze upon the familiar comfort of the girls' bunkroom. She realized that it was once again filled with the newsgirls' possessions. There was Violet's neat pile of sheet music for the piano; Midnight's ancient skates dangled from the corner of her bed; a well-used tennis racquet, Twink's, stood proudly against its owner's bunk; Sabrina's riding helmet was carefully tucked away under her messy mountain of belongings collected from her travels; Shadow's sacred journal was no doubt placed safely under her pillow (though she had made it quite clear long ago that if anyone dared to even breath on her journal, they'd end up with cement shoes at the bottom of the Hudson); And Pocket knew quite well that Tornado's favorite necklace, the one made of shells and which had been passed down from generation to generation through her family, would be strung around the girl's neck.

"Hey, you're up," a cheerful Violet stated the obvious as she, seated on her bed, turned to find Pocket away. "How are you?"

"Too sore ta feel anyt'ing, which ain't a bad t'ing, really," she answered and made a feeble attempt to shrug.

"Do you want some water? Another blanket?"

Pocket nodded then shook her head slowly. "Er...yeah ta da wadah, but no ta da blanket. Is everybody already out sellin'? Man, I hate missin' a day's sellin'. What time is it, anyways? Nine o'clock already?"

The raven-haired newsie couldn't help but laugh as she handed Pocket a tall glass filled with icy water. "You've been asleep almost the entire day, from last night when you passed you to"-she checked Specs' pocket watch, which he had graciously lent her-"seven-thirty tonight. The doctor said you didn't have a concussion or anything and to let you sleep, but with the way you were zonked out, I was ready to get you to the hospital."

"Seven-thoity?" Pocket cried in disbelief. "Man, I nevah slept so much in my whole life. Not even date time when I was in Queens and wid da Queens newsies, of coise." She, for once, decided against launching into her tale to instead ask the multitude of questions flying around her mind. "But wheah's everybody? Da newsies ain't exactly da quietest group in da city, Violet. What happened ta all da racket I'm used ta?"

"The ones who wanted to make noise went elsewhere, and those who stayed had to swear to be absolutely silent."

"How'd ya get a doctah ta come heah?"

Violet grinned and chuckled, "You can thank Twink for that. She's used to getting hurt playing tennis and goes to this doctor for her serious injuries. He agreed to come and check on you."

Pocket took a long sip of water and studied the now half-filled cup before finally lifted her eyes to the leader of the Manhattan newsgirls. "What happened aftah I fainted?"

"Well," Violet drew a deep breath to begin, "Cricket was the first one to catch sight of you falling, but Racetrack was the one who actually caught you. We were all sure that you were about ready to die or something, but Twink inspected you (you should've seen her professional solemness; probably comes from seeing so many tennis injuries, you know) and assure us that you were just physically exhausted. She was relatively sure you didn't have a concussion, either, but wanted to make sure. So she ran off to find that doctor friend of hers, shouting to us as she left to meet her back at the lodging house.

"The pickpockets, after seeing the Dodger and those two other huge guys run out, were much more friendly and remorseful. They were really worried about you, too, 'Ket, said that they remembered you were always such a nice kid. We were still a bit weary of them; after all, they were the ones who had stolen our things and caused this entire mess. But they offered to help us carry our things back to the lodging house and seemed honest enough. Besides, that boy, Blitz, gave us his word of honor that the pickpockets wouldn't try anything, and he seems to be a really dependable kid. We gathered everything and marched back here, with Jack carrying you the entire way. The pickpockets even helped set our belongings back into their proper places. I'll tell you, Pocket, I couldn't believe how perfectly they remembered how everything was positioned after only seeing this place once. But I suppose that comes from being a pickpocket. Anyway, as I said before, Dr. Nobles examine you and confirmed that you didn't have a concussion. He bandaged your wounds and told us to keep quiet for a while, until you were better. And, well, I guess that's about it."

Pocket considered all of this with a tired mind. The pickpockets had actually helped the newsies? They had been worried about her? Maybe with the Dodger gone, the pickpockets could become a group like the newsies; they'd never be respectable, Pocket understood that, but being a tighter-knit society might give the pickpockets a sense of family. Hey, I'm liking it, she told herself with a bright grin before murmuring a good-night and thank-you to Violet, and swiftly fell asleep once again.

*****

"Horrible accident on da train tracks yestahday aftahnoon!" Pocket shouted to the denizens of New York City. "Train runs off of da tracks, on its way from New Yawk ta New Orleans! All presumed"- she had to struggle over that world and made a mental note to ask Dave what in the world it meant-"dead!" That morning, Violet had at last allowed Pocket to return to the streets. The leader of the Manhattan newsgirls had practically tied Pocket to her bed for the past week, firmly insisting that that she wasn't about to let an injured newsie roam the streets with the Delancys, bulls, and other hazards at every corner. Pocket knew her friend was just concerned, but that thought didn't help when she spent the entire week staring up at the bottom of Tornado's bunk and wondering how long the newsies were going to be out that day.

It was proving to be a profitable morning, if nothing else. She hadn't needed to create any wild headlines this morning. Even if she did feel rather badly for those involved in the accident, it made selling so much easier. Everyone seemed eager to buy a paper. "T'ank ya, mistah. Have a nice day."

Lunchtime was drawing nearer and Pocket's stomach was fiercely reminding her of this, despite the fact that the nuns had given the newsies breakfast that morning. Mmm...practically stale bread and weak coffee. Da breakfast of champions, she laughed to herself as she sold another paper. At this rate, she'd beat Jack's record of two hundred and seventy-three newspapers in one day (he had insisted it was due to his talent and charm, but everyone knew that the article of Teddy Roosevelt's charge up San Juan Hill might have helped a little); of course, Jack was probably beating his own record at the same time.

"While I'se was walkin' t'rough da pawk one day," Pocket sang one of Medda's old tunes, "in da merry, merry month of May, I was taken by surprise-"

As if on cue, Midnight whirled around the corner and bounded over to Pocket with her usual grin, startling the former pickpocket. "Geez, goil, ya nearly gave me a heart-attack deah!"

"Sorry about that," Midnight apologized calmly (her usual tone). "How's selling going? Great day for it, huh?"

Pocket nodded enthusiastically. "Yeah, dis article's a real attention-gettah. I feel bad for da people on da train, of coise, but I'se still likin' da money I'se makin' tahday."

"I know what you mean. Yesterday wasn't half as good, and it isn't even lunch yet."

"Speakin' of lunch, ya wanna-" Pocket stopped short and eyed the auburn-haired newsie suspiciously. "Say, Midnight, it's a long way from your beat ta just say hello. Why are ya heah?"

For a split second, a flash of worry lit Midnight's eyes. Like a bolt of lightning, it vanished just as quickly as it had appeared. "Just to see how you were selling today. I mean, I've been doing so great, I thought it might just be my dumb luck. It's-"

"Midnight, ya suck as undahcovah," Pocket interjected, giggling. She knew the girl's plan; Violet, who had made several appearances that morning to check Pocket's health until Pocket exclaimed that she couldn't sell with someone constantly on her back, had obviously sent Midnight to do the work for her. "Tell Vee I'se fine and I'll get back ta da Lodgin' House if anyt'ings wrong, which it ain't. And if somet'ing happens, Race's on da next block, unless he's at da races, of coise."

Midnight sighed, though continued to smile. "All right. Just be careful, okay, 'Ket?" After receiving a nod from the girl, Midnight turned and took off in the direction from which she had just come.

Can't leave me alone for two seconds, Pocket, smiling, sighed to herself as she began shouting out the headlines again, waving a paper at arm's length above her head. "Train wreck jus' outside of da city! Hundreds dead! City in shock!" Suddenly Pocket sensed someone else behind her. It's Ivy or Sabrina or Twink or whoevah Vee sent this time. As she whirled around, she sighed, "I'm all right, really, ya don't have ta worry about me." At least, that's what she intended to say. What actually came out was, "I'm all right, really, ya-" and then Pocket fell into amazed silence.

Blitz stood there uncertainly, his hands stuffed into his pockets and his eyes focused on the cement beneath their feet.

Finally (as it seemed as if Blitz had suddenly fallen mute), Pocket gasped out, "Blitz, what're ya doin' heah? I t'ought ya'd be wid da oddah pickpockets. Ya're gonna need a new leadah, aftah all." A horrifying thought crossed Pocket's mind. "Ya gotta get a new leadah, right?"

The boy nodded and assured her, "Yeah, da Dodgah's long gone by now. Probably ran clear ta Oklahoma or somet'ing." They both chuckled lightly, both relaxing. Then Blitz drew a deep breath, gathering his courage, and raised his eyes to meet Pocket's. "Pocket, I didn't mean ta get ya inta trouble. Ya probably t'ink I was meetin' wid ya jus' 'cause it was part of da plan or whatevah. But I really didn't want ta do it, it was da Dodgah. I'se sorry, Pocket, really sorry. I hope ya can forgive me."

"Aw, Blitz," Pocket murmured kindly, smiling genuinely at the boy who seemed to be on the verge of tears, "I nevah t'ought ya was doin' it 'cause ya're mean."

"T'anks, Hetty- er, Pocket," he replied gratefully and so softly that Pocket needed to guess at his words rather than hear them.

"Ya're welcome, Blitz. Aftah all"-she grinned-"pickpockets stick tagethah forevah." With that, they spit-shook and then hugged. "So, ya stealin' in dis section tahday, or was dis jus' a social call?"

Blitz shook his head. "Actually, I'm givin' up da pickpockets. It's not what I wanna do for da rest of my life. And even wid da Dodgah gone, it's still a real tough, lonely life. So I t'ought...I t'ought I'd, ah, join up wid da newsies. I mean, ya seem ta like it so much and dey seem ta be a nice group..." He appeared to be asking for Pocket's blessing, or even her permission.

If he was waiting for an accepting remark, he certainly received one. Pocket leapt to Blitz and threw her arms around his neck to embrace her friend again. "Oh, Blitz, dis is great! Ya're gonna love it at da Lodgin' House, really! Da newsies are great, ya'll love dem, too." She released Blitz, but was still bubbling over with excitement. "Kloppman's great, too, even if he does wake us up way too early in da mornin'. And ya'll be da best at sellin' papes, almost as good as me. And ya can come ta Tibby's and Irvin' Hall (ya're gonna love Medda's, I sweah) and ta Brooklyn when we go swimmin' wid dem in da summah. Oh, Blitz!"

Pocket could hardly wait to tell her friends about the latest member to join their ranks. She and Blitz would later enter Tibby's, where they would be greeted by a crowd of newsies already eating and chatting, and she would tell her friends, "Guys, dis is Blitz. Him and me met a long time ago, when we was both eight and in Harlem. It was a dark, stormy night, practically a hurricane, when..."

Several evenings later, after Blitz had been introduce to the wonderful world of selling papers and was beginning o get the hang of things (though, he admitted, it was tempting to steal from someone who refused to buy a paper), Pocket climbed onto the fire escape. It was a chilly night and she should have been inside, nice and warm and beating the pants of Specs at poker, but she felt the need to be alone on that particular evening.

From inside, she could hear the familiar sounds of Aussie playing her faithful guitar (she had finally landed a gig in a little cafe and desired to practice as often as possible before the big day), Snoddy and Pie Eater playing checkers (in all honesty, Pie Eater was attempting to play; Snoddy was thrashing him severely), and Jack was yammering on about he had just had the greatest day with Sarah. "T'ree aces, fellahs," Racetrack, who was involved in a poker game with Kid Blink and Mush, boasted gleefully. Though Pocket couldn't hear them, she supposed that Shadow was in some secluded corner writing poetry, and that Midnight and Bumlets were up on the roof (most likely swapping smoochies).

Pocket sighed deeply and leaned back against the chilly brick wall. It had been such a tumultuous few weeks. She had come face to face with her past, which was something most newsies weren't generally too comfortable with. She realized how much she had cahnged during her years of being a newsie. Sure, she was still the bright, reckless, incessant chatterbox she had always been, but there was something more now, something that the pickpockets hadn't been able to provide her with. As Pocket listened to the familiar sounds of the lodging house, she understood what that something was.

"Whatcha doin' out heah, tryin' ta get pneumonia aftah bein' knocked out for a whole week?" Racetrack, interrupting the girl's blissful thoughts, questioned as he stuck his head outside the window.

"Yeah, it was evah so much fun stayin' heah and doin' absolutely nothin' for a whole week," she replied facetiously. "Why're ya so anxious about my health? Did ya really miss me dat much?" She flashed her brightest grin and batted her eyelashes.

Race put his hand to his heart dramatically. "I could barely live widout ya, 'Ket. Now, come on, join da game." With that, he disappeared back into the room.

Pocket moved to follow, but decided to remain outside for just another moment. Beaming happily, she nodded to herself. She had overcome her past and found a true family in the newsies. And as for the future, well, who knew? But it was beginning to look brighter already.

The End

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