"Let go of my arm, Race," I hissed, wrenching his hand away.

"Whatevah you say, dollface," he mumbled. "But ya still comin' wid me. McCain din't pay me ta let you run off an' get lost or somet'in'."

"I'd rather be lost than with you," I muttered, seething.

Race stepped in front of me and stood, blocking my path. Looking into my eyes, he said, "No. I don't t'ink you would. Now, c'mon. I ain't gonna hoit ya."

I followed him down the street in an angry silence, thinking over what I'd say to Skweeker if I ever came face-to-face with her again, which was highly unlikely. She seemed like the type that never stayed in one place for too long.

"We're heah," Race said, motioning to an old building. I followed him up the steps, and he held the creaky wooden door open for me as I stepped inside the Newsboys' Lodging House.

The smell of old air hit me, and the mixture of that and the dust made my eyes water so much that I must have looked like I was crying because Race looked over at me and said, "Now, if ya gonna live in New Yawk, ya gotta learn not ta cry like a baby. Chin up. Dry ya eyes."

"I'm not crying," I snapped. "I'm beyond that. This dusty air is what's got me."

"Oh," he nodded. "Yeah, it'll do dat. C'mon, I'll take ya upstairs to da goils' room."

I followed Racetrack up the creaky wooden staircase and into a room close to the end of the hall. "Dat's it," he said. "Go grab any bunk dat don't have stuff on it already. Jus' stay up heah if ya want, but I'm leavin'. If ya's lucky somebody'll come up heah an' wake ya up befoah supper."

"Why do I have to stay up here?" I asked him.

He took a long look at me. "Do I look like I want ya hangin' around me all day? Cheez."

With that, he turned and descended the staircase. I lay down on a bunk with my hands behind my head, thinking. At that moment, sleep was impossible. There was too much on my mind. I rolled over onto my side, still deep in thought, wondering what I was going to do and how long I was going to have to stay at the lodge. I was interrupted from my thoughts when I heard a voice.

"Ain't seen you 'round heah before."

I rolled back over to face a girl who looked around fifteen. She had light brown hair and greenish-blueish eyes. "Well?" she asked impatiently.

"Monkey McCartney," I introduced myself, sticking out my hand.

"Twiggy Townsend," she said, shaking my hand. "I saw Race drag ya down tha street. What's da prollem?"

Rolling my eyes, I answered, "Well, it's a long story, but just now Skweeker McCain paid Race to get me away from her and Snake Eyes Marconi."

"You know them two?" she asked, surprised. When I nodded, she said, "Gosh, I've hoid stories 'bout those two, but never met 'em face-ta-face."

"You probably don't want to," I said.

Twiggy laughed. "C'mon wid me, I'm goin' ta get suppa. A hot dog from Mario, da street vendor two blocks down. I'll get ya one too."

"All right," I gave in, standing up. "Do you have a comb?"

Twiggy gave me a once-over. "You got lice or anything?"

"I don't think I do..." I said.

Shrugging, she grabbed a comb and tossed it to me. "Good enough answer fer me."

"Thanks," I said, running it through my tangled hair.

I lay the comb down and followed her out of the room, down the stairs, and out the front door. We headed down the street toward a small cart where a short, dumpy Italian man stood, hawking his wares.

"Hot-a dogs! Hot-a dogs! Soda pop!" he called from behind his small, beat-up cart.

"Two hot dogs an' two sodas," Twiggy ordered.

"Ten cents," he said, grabbing the food and placing it in front of us. Twiggy handed him a dime in exchange for our dinners, and then gave my food to me. "Thank you," I said. Nodding, and with her mouth full, she said, "C'mon, we'll go eat on da roof 'er somet'in'."

The two of us headed back to the lodging house and carefully climbed up the fire escape to the roof above. Sitting down on the edge, I took a big bite of my hot dog. "Mmm..."

"Nevah had a hot dog?"

I shook my head. After swallowing, I answered, "I haven't had a decent meal in a very long time."

"Ah, really? Wanna talk about ya past 'er anything? I mean, if ya don' wanna, I understand."

"No, it doesn't bother me much any more," I answered, launching into my story of how I'd come to be at the lodging house. "What's your story?" I asked her when I was done.

"Well, I lived wid my parents till just a few months ago. Pop got sick, an' he can't woik, so Ma has ta keep da family goin'. I sell papes, an' she woiks at a fact'ry. Since she don't make much, I moved out so dat there'd only be two mouths ta feed 'stead o' three. I still go see 'em, though."

"I'd think that you would use your pape money to help your family," I said.

Twiggy shook her head. "No, it ain't like dat. See, if I bring in more money dan we need fer da bare necessities, Pop takes it an' goes to da pub. Dat's why he's sick. Liver disease."

"Oh...I see."

"Yeah, well, I can't do nothin' about it," she said quietly, fiddling with the last of her hot dog bun.

We finished our dinner in silence and climbed back down the fire escape to the girls' room. Exhausted, I collapsed onto my bunk and fell asleep right away, not even bothering to introduce myself to the other girls who were in the room.