Blink, Mush, Snitch, Racetrack, and Davey walked amiably down the cobblestone streets of 1899 New York. They were accompanied by Spot, who was scowling behind them, quite unusual for the typically cheeky and stable leader of Brooklyn. He glanced behind him for what seemed like the millionth time. The old hag that claimed to tell of the future was still following them.

She was muttering under her breath to herself as she pulled her thin and tattered shawl tighter around her shoulders. Her eyes were bugged and they appeared to be escaping from her scull as the one eyeball looked aimlessly in different directions. Her feet were bulging out from her size-to-small shoes, making her already chubby figure look larger.

The others hadn't seemed to notice the odd woman following them, but Spot was beginning to be creeped out by her strange behavior. He knew the other newsies and he could take her if she turned out to be mad, but something about her made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He scowled in frustration at his emotion of fear, however small it was, and continued along sulkily behind the other boys.

"Oh, c'mon! Please?" Alicia was begging of her friend.

Camille looked at the shifty fortune teller booth. It was the 2009 annual Washington County Fair and Alicia desperately wanted to see Camille's 'future'. "I don't know," Camille trailed off doubtfully.

"Please, please, please!" Alicia clasped her hands together and jumped up and down.

Camille ran a hand through her hair, regretfully giving in to her bubbly friend. "Alright," she agreed.

"WOO!" Alicia whooped. "I'm so excited to see what she says! You won't even let me read you your horoscope! Won't this be fun?" She kept on talking about the joy of fortune telling and tarot cards all throughout the time they were waiting in line.

Finally Camille spun around, her dark curls swinging violently. "Okay," she breathed out. "I think we need to be quiet inside the tent, so let's practice being quiet, shall we?"

Alicia pouted. She crossed her arms. "Fine," she mumbled.

"Thank you." Camille turned back to face the front of the line.

Behind her Alicia muttered cheerily, "I still win."

When her turn came, Camille grabbed Alicia and dragged her into the purple tent behind her. No way was she going into that place alone. The scent of strong incense burned the girls' noses. "Ow!" Alicia murmured through the thick smoke.

"Sit down my dears," came a voice made scratchy from excessive smoking.

The two sat on cushioned stools across from the speaker, who was sitting on the other side of the round table in the tent.

The woman perched on the stool was old and rather plump, she held out her hand, accepting the money Camille forked over with her sausage-like fingers. Camille's hand looked as if it were made of twigs next to this woman. The lady was slightly hunched over and she continued to tug her ratty shawl closer. She stared at the two with large round eyes that popped out of her face. The one eyeball wandered, reminding the girls of a toad.

"Give your hands to Madame Schleffel," the, presumably, Madame Schleffel rasped out in instruction.

Camille uncertainly reached her hands over to where Madame Schleffel was waiting with her own arms outstretched. With one last fleeting glare at Alicia, who sat transfixed already, Camille gave Schleffel her full attention. The woman closed her eyes and grasped Camille's hands in her own.

Schleffel jolted upright in her seat as soon as she had come in contact with Camille's skin, shaking all over. Alicia's mouth dropped in horror at the old lady. "Oh my God," Camille whispered sharply, trying to pry her hands from Schleffel's tightening grasp. "What's happening?" Camille hissed in panic at Alicia.

"I—I—I—" her friend blubbered, unable to take her eyes from the seizing Schleffel.

Camille began jerking violently, trying to save her hands from the circulation endangering vice grip Schleffel had on her. "Help!" Camille cried.

Suddenly, Madame Schleffel's head slumped to her chest, mouth agape, and went still. The girls were breathing heavily, but paused in shock.

"Is she dead?" Alicia whispered, leaning forward slightly.

Madame Schleffel's head snapped up, her eyes bulging, now covered with a haze, and began to speak with an ominous tone. "They're coming. They're coming. Be ready. Be ready. Be ready."

Camille was broken from her shocked trance the moment the woman had begun to talk to them. "Please," she was begging, "Madame Schleffel, let me go." She was tugging once again at her hands.

"Chip! Be ready! Be ready, Chip! Be ready!" the woman repeated, then her head slumped back down to her chest and she released Camille.

The old woman blinked, as if just waking up. "Right," she said. "Ready for your fortune?"

Running from the tent as fast as Camille's feet would take her, Alicia hot on her heels, she shook her head, trying to rid herself of the traumatic even that had just ensued. "What the hell?!" she was mumbling, passersby giving her odd looks.

Then, the scratchy voice that could only belong to Madame Schleffel rang out. "COME BACK!"

Camille turned to see the crotchety fortune teller waddling speedily in their direction. "Really?!" Alicia squealed in disbelief.

Camille's eyes widened. "Shit," she latched her hand onto Alicia's wrist. "Run!" As they sprinted towards the fairground parking lot, to the safety of Alicia's car.

"NO!" Madame Schleffel howled behind them. "What did I say? What did I SAY?!" Schleffel was losing ground. "Oi." She muttered, dragging her old, withered body along.

"The old bat sure doesn't give up, does she?" Alicia commented.

Camille jerked her friend, "Keep moving!"

They reached the little red Grand AM and whipped the doors open. Alicia climbed into the driver's side, as Camille clamored clumsily into the passenger seat. "I am never listening to you again! Ever!" Camille gasped, searching wildly to see if Madame Schleffel had backed down.

She hadn't.

The girls saw her hobble from between the dairy barn and the craft's contest hall, heading their direction.

"Really?!" Alicia squeaked again, this time a higher and more frightened pitch.

"Go!" Camille yelled, voice cracking as the old lady's eyes fell upon the Grand AM.

"I thought old people couldn't see well!" Alicia exclaimed, ramming into reverse.

"Does she seem like a normal old person to you?" Camille sarcastically replied.

What the hell was going on? The wheels in her head were turning at an immensely fast pace. Had Madame Schleffel really foreseen something? No, it was improbable, impossible. But then why was she chasing after them in agony? It was clear that her weathered body was causing her pain in her attempts to catch the girls. And what in the world did she mean by, "They're coming. Be ready, Chip!" Who were they? And who was Chip?

Madame Schleffel watched the two young women roll away from the fairgrounds. Had she been younger and subject to childish behavior, she would have stomped her foot. She waited until the red car was out of sight before turning to limp slowly back to her dreary tent. After that rare episode it was going to be quite the boring day of making up fortunes.

The haggard soothsayer was still walking behind the group in a deranged way the next time Spot checked. "Okay, dat's it!" he hissed in exasperation. The others heard him and turned, finally noticing their nighttime stalker. They exchanged glances, their gazes coming to rest on Spot. "That old hag's been followin' us since we started out," he explained. "I say we confront her. Tell her ta cheese it."

"Don't be too harsh, Spot," Davey stepped forward, ever the kind, gentlemanly sort.

"I ain't gonna be harsh," Spot glared back at the taller boy. "I'se just gonna tell 'er where ta stick it!"

Mush and Blink laughed, trailing off abashedly when Davey shot them an unapproving look. "Spot, she's an old woman; she probably needs help with something. Like fixing shingles, or getting a cat down from a tree," he brainstormed, waving his hand vaguely.

"Yeah?" Spot challenged. "Well she's followin' da wrong guys."

During Davey and Spot's argument, the old crackpot had come close enough for the boys to hear what she had been mumbling to herself. "They're waiting. They're waiting. Prepare yourselves. They're waiting."

Spot glared down at her. "Yeah, they're waitin' for ya at the mad house."

"Spot!" Davey scolded. He was rewarded with another one of Spot's poisonous looks.

"Prepare yourselves. Prepare yourselves," the bug eyed old shrew stumbled forward, grabbing a bit of Spot's shirt in her grasp. He immediately pulled away, but the old woman had an iron grip. "Prepare Spot! They're waiting!"

Spot choked on whatever he was going to say. The old lady blinked a few times, then looked back to the boys. Her eyes were a little less clouded it seemed. "Oh," she said in surprise. "Hello dears, please, excuse me." Then she patted Spot on the chest where she had been holding on so tightly and dragged her ragged body away.

Snitch stood shivering, his thumb dangerously close to his quivering mouth. Mush put an arm around him. Racetrack, who had surprisingly kept his mouth shut the whole time, now stepped forward. "That lady needs ta be locked away!" He puffed out a cloud of smoke from the cigar he had been smoking.

Spot nodded, baffled. "Let's keep going," he advised slowly.

The boys continued walking, an awkward silence hovering above them. The streets suddenly seemed deserted. "Why did Jack have to call this meeting so late?" Snitch whimpered.

"No worries, Snitchy," Racetrack reassured. "We'll help ya out if an axe murderah appeahs. Unless o' course he offs us first…"

Snitch moaned in frightened agony, as Race guffawed at his wimpish friend.

"Hey look!" Mush shouted, pointing toward a loaded up carriage. There was a large crate, postmarked 'WISC' on the side. The oddity of the box was that a dull glow emanated through the cracks from the inside. Blink curiously walked closer.

Something about the mysteriousness of the object drew him to it, urging him to go on. He found himself reaching out towards the crate.

"Careful now, Blink," Davey murmured, staring at the box in an unexplainable awe. In fact, the six newsies were so crowded, wide-eyed, around Blink that at least a bit of them was touching him as they peered over his shoulders. His outstretched hand crept closer, hesitating about half an inch away from the box.

And then he touched it.