I reached to my chest and fingered the small silver ring on the leather cord that hung round my neck. That ring brought back terrible memories. Memories of the last sequence of dreams Iıd had. They were about the best friend I ever had, Arthur. Arthur and I were pals when we were seven. His brother, Frank (what we called him, Frank was just a nickname) was twelve at the time. He would play with us, and help us when we were in trouble. He was kind of like a father to us, because we were all orphans. Their mother was dead and they never told me where their father was. So Frank took care of us, until I had the dreams about Arthur. I tried to warn him about the factory accident, but he wouldnıt listen. After the death of my mother, I always tried to prevent the deaths of other dream subjects, but it never worked. So sure enough, a week later, Arthur visited the factory where Frank worked, and the reel of the factory machine hit Arthur in the head and killed him instantly. Frank took it real hard, family was always an issue with him. Being completely alone in the world hit him like a rock. He took off after that, saying he was going to seek his fortune in New Mexico. I havenıt seen him in eight long years. Remembering, I caught my breath, but suddenly felt a sharp pain in my side and subsided in a bought of coughing. I heard footsteps coming into the room.

³What is it, honey? You okay? Ya want some water or somethinı?² said a soft voice in the semi-darkness.

³No thanks, Medda, Iıll be fine,² I choked out. Medda was a club owner in Manhattan where I worked as her dishwasher in exchange for meals and a place to sleep. I hated to wake her up like this, but there was nothing I could do. She was always a light sleeper.

At five in the morning, I stopped pretending to sleep and took a shower in the tiny washroom connected to my room. I let the hot water run over my skinny body, washing away the sweat and dirt from the past week. I slathered my blonde hair with soap. Oh! To be clean again! I have blonde hair and blue eyes, which some people think makes me look fake, and very pale skin. Iım pretty short for my age, which is thirteen. Iım only about five feet tall, and that makes it very difficult to reach the soap and shower nozzle. But somehow I managed, and got out of the shower, dried myself, and put on a clean white blouse and my blue skirt, that Medda said brought out my eyes. Today was Sunday, and that meant my day off. Outside, I could hear the voices of the newsies. I decided to buy a paper and head to Central Park.

³Ellis Island in flames!² called an extremely familiar looking boy of about seventeen. I knew him from somewhere, but I simply couldnıt place it. It couldnıt be...nah. He was long gone.

³Iıll take one, please,² I handed the boy a penny and his eyes met mine, and locked for a moment. He was just so familiar.

³Thank you you, maıam,² he nodded his head to me and took pennies from a few other people.

I walked to Central Park, reviewing my dream in my head. I had dreamt of a newspaper cart being pushed over, a headline billboard with the word Œstrikeı printed on it, a one sheet paper that said Œnewsie bannerı and a rally. There was nothing so bad about all this, but I knew that if I had a dream, the next night it would get worse, and so on, until the final horrible event took place. There were many faces in my dream, and I could normally recognize them if I didnıt already know them. That was where I knew the boy! He had been the main face in my dream! That wasnıt all, though. I could sense it. From somewhere deep in my sub-conscious, I knew him. I just couldnıt remember what from.

I ran back to where I had last seen him, and I found him with a couple of other boys. I approached him cautiously. I tried to memorize his face, so if I needed to, I could recognize him. He had blondish-brown hair hanging in his eyes, (which were brown) somewhat sun-tanned skin, and a tired but enthusiastic air about him.

³Excuse me,² I said politely. ³Whatıs your name?ı I asked; just to make sure he really wasnıt who I had first thought he was.

He looked at me, a little confused. ³Jack Kelly, why?² he said. His New York accent was heavy. Then he couldnıt possibly be my old friend.

³Oh, you just reminded me of someone, thatıs all,² I replied quickly.

³Oh,² he said, squinting at me like he knew me from somewhere.

³Well, thank you again,² l said finally, holding up the paper.

At the park, I fed the pidgeons some of my breakfast, read my paper, and thought more about my dream. The boy was so familiar, I felt like I knew him inside and out. There was just something about him that I knew from sometime long ago. I think it had something to do with his eyes. After I realized that the recognition wasnıt setting in, I switched my thoughts to what the dream meant and how I was going to stop what was going to happen. I couldnıt do an awful lot now, because my dreams never revealed much the first night. There was really nothing I could do but wait till I slept.

That night, I dreamt of an old man wearing a black suit, who had little hair and was wearing a smirk as he walked into the rally that I dreamt of the night before. I dreamt of the newsboy I met getting punched and thrown off a box seat. I couldnıt tell where the rally was being held last night, but tonight I saw that it was at Meddaıs! The boy, thank goodness, didnıt fall straight to the ground, but was caught by police men. That was when I woke up, sweating again and fighting to catch my breath. I got up before Medda needed me and dressed, planning on buying a paper to see if there was anything about a newsie rally.

On the street, I saw all the newsies clumped together, having a very heated discussion. But there were no newspapers.

³Excuse me,² I said to an Italian boy with a cigar in his mouth. ³Whatıs going on?²

³Sorry to disturb you, maıam, but weıre goin on strike. Pulitzer jacked up da price, and we aint gonna stand fer it.² said the boy enthusiastically. The strike in my dream! I looked up just in time to see the boy called Jack finish writing something on a headline bulletin. ŒStrikeı! Oh no, this scene was in my dream! This was happening faster than I expected. Which meant that I had very little time to figure out exactly what was going to happen and how I was going to stop it.

All I wanted to do was go to sleep, (not that I was tired, I needed more of the dream) but Medda said she needed me to clean up after last nightıs show. I sighed and got my broom from the closet. Geez! Visitors were pigs! I saw a paper lying on the ground a few feet over and walked over and picked it up. On the front page was a picture of a bunch of boys in different poses, as if they hadnıt known they were having a picture taken. In the front was the boy in my dream. I gasped and dropped the paper in surprise. This was getting extremely serious, but I still didnıt see what was so dangerous about a strike.

I finished cleaning up as fast as I could, did the rest of my chores and made myself some dinner while I mulled over what I had discovered that day. There was just something about that boy that made me care about him, and wonder about him. Suddenly a wave of nausea washed over me and I staggered, grabbing the table for support.

³Itıs OK, Dally, youıll be fine here. Medda was a friend of Papaıs , you remember. Youıll be safe here.² a boy of about twelve stood over me, softly brushing the hair and tears from my eyes.

³But Iım scared, I donıt want you to leave,² I cried out and held up my arms. The boy kissed my forehead lightly and left.

I shook my head and blamed my stomach problems on my lack of cooking skills.

In bed that night, I fell asleep quickly. I dreamt of the boy getting hit in the jaw, being arrested. Then in a court (the boy then had a black eye; howıd that happen?) then of people being sentenced to life for breaking and entering and using a vintage printing press. The strike was over; the newsboys had lost; and they left New York behind unhappily. I woke in a sweat again, knew that how NOT much people might care about the newsies strike, I did, for reasons that I didnıt know. I had a feeling I would regret it if I didnıt do something. I thought back through my dreams about what might help the strike. A girl was one of the people being arrested for breaking and entering.

³Youıve been living here?² she asked the boy called Jack.

³Shh,² he said. ³Theyıre right above us,²

³Jack, thatıs very rude, shushing a lady,² she puffed.

³Whatıs going on down there?² called a voice. An old man came down the stairs with a cop, and thatıs when they got arrested. Suddenly, I knew what I had to do. I had to warn the girl. She had long auburn hair that was kind of curly at the bottom, and was wearing a white blouse and a pinkish colored skirt. I tried to think through my other dreams and walks through the streets for her name, but I had never seen her before in my life. This realization didnıt help me much, it just made me more frustrated. To take my mind off it until I could actually get a chance to look for her, I dressed and went to find Medda.

³You met Jack? I knew his father. Heıs a good kid, though. Not like his Pop. He comes around here sometimes. What about him?² Medda was always good at answering questions, and she seemed to know everybody.

³Well, I was wondering if he and his friends are having a rally here anytime,² I said, failing miserably at being tactful.

Medda looked puzzled. ³Why, yes they are. How did you know that? Did Jack tell you?²

³Yes! Yes, thatıs it, Jack told me. When is it?² Well, that solved the problem of how I knew about the rally. I hated lying to Medda, though.

³Oh. Itıs tonight, sweet. Ya wanna come?² Tonight!I had to act fast. I couldnıt do anything about the rally, but I could do something about the strike and the life sentences. Just as long as I could talk to that girl...

³Yes, Medda, I think I will come. Do you want me to help you set up?²

³Yeah, honey, thatıd be real nice. Can you get me down, lemme see, Iııll need the bridge, my pink outfit with the parasol, and that swing,²she said thoughtfully. ³The rest is up kind of high, so Iıll get that myself.²

³Alright,² I said, cursing my height for the hundredth time.

At the rally, I stood backstage, peeking out into the audience so I could see what was happening. Looking around, I saw Jack standing in front with two other boys. There were newsies everywhere! Suddenly, I saw the girl. She was wearing a sheepherders dress, minus the cane, instead of the outfit I knew her in, but I knew it was the girl from my dream. I had to get to her, and soon. I didnıt know how long ti would be until the police got there. I inched my way forward, but jack was starting to speak. I edged around behind him without anyone noticing me and made my way over to the girl. When I got to the row she was in, I tapped her on the shoulder.

³Excuse me,² I said, knowing she must think I was crazy. ³You donıt know me, but I need to warn you about something. Do you know Jack Kelly?² she nodded, looking bewildered and a little frightened. ³Well, sometime soon, heıs going to say Œquiet, theyıre right above usı. Whatever you do, donıt yu or anyone else reply. Say nothing. Do you understand?² She nodded again, this time in pure fear. ³Good. Thank you,² I said, as politely as I could, and the I left.

Truth be told, the reason I left was because I was scared to watch the restof the rally. I didnıt want to see Jack get hurt, even though I knew it had to happen to save the strike and their freedom. I heard everything from my room, though, and it practically made me sick. I didnıt want to hear anymore, so I readied myself for bed. I lay awake for a while, trying to block the screams of frightened strikers, but finally sleep claimed me.

The next morning, I awoke from an almost dreamless night of undisturbed slumber. The one dream I had was of the court again. It told me the location and that it was the trial of the captured strikers, including Jack.

I sat in the back of the courtroom, watching g uiltily as all the newsies BUT Jack were fined. I didnıt feel as bad when a reporter covered them, though. My senses perked when I saw J ack being led in. Then a slimy looking old man spoke up:

³This boyıs real name is Francis Sullivan,² The rest was lost to me. Sullivan? Did that man just say FRANCIS SULLIVAN? My Francis? Frank? Arthur Sullivanıs brother Francis Sullivan? He wasnıt in New Mexico after all? That was why he looked so familiar! Then the realization hit me. I was standing in front of the friend and brother I lost so many years ago. I found him!

³Frank!² I screamed out. Everyone turned to look at me.

³Nobodyıs called me that since-² he looked at me closer. ³Dally?² I nodded slowly, a smile growing to a grin on my expectant face. He was about to speak again when the judge silenced the hubbub with his hammer (Authorıs interruption- what is that thing called, anyway?).

³Order in the court!² called the judge. ³As suggested by Warden Snyder, I order his incarceration in The House of Refuge till the age of 21. So ordered.² At this the guards took him away, but he smiled reassuringly at me on his way out. I waved. Trust me to act stupid in a situation. I then remembered where he was going and would have panicked on the if I hadnıt remembered my dream. If all went as it had in my dream and the girl from the rally kept her mouth shut, everything would work itself out. That night I drifted out of consciousness and into a bottomless black pit of sleep.

Two unevent ful days later, the Italian boy that told me about the strike gave me a flyer. I read it and heard noise at the window. There were about a hundred people marching past me all carrying the flyer. I rushed out to join the throng. We ended up outside The World building. I saw lots of newsies standing around a large bronze statue and scanned them with my eyes for Frank, but he was nowhere to be seen. Had the girl spoke? Had I once again failed to stop a nightmare come true? My heart fell, and I was about to burst into tears when the crowd went silent. I looked up to see Frank and another boy walk out of the gates. Frank whispered something in a little boys ear, lifted him onto his shoulders and yelled, ³We beat Œem!² out to the waiting crowd. I had done it! The girl had kept quiet and the strike was over and frank was free and I had stopped the nightmare! I tried to get through to congratulate him or talk to him or something, just see him after all these years... but he was already walking away. I ran towards him, calling out his name. He didnıt appear to hear me. He was climbing into a carraige. I called out to him one last time, one last effort. I couldıve have sworn he looked straight at me... and winked.