Hey, sorry for the long delay…. Chapter three at last!

About an hour after Crutchie showed up he fell asleep in his chair. Twenty minutes later Romeo, Specs and Henry appeared on the street below. Jack could hear their voices, their banter. They sounded worried.

He crawled over to the window, careful not to wake up David as he did so. Prying the thin glass open was easy. He stuck his head out and held the slipping window up on his shoulders. Cupping his hands around his mouth, he called down to them.

"Lookin' for somethin'?"

"Yeah…." Specs' eyes darted over to Romeo. "Yeah. Uh, you ain't seen Crutchie, 'ave you?"

"What'd'you mean, course I have! He's in 'ere. What? You lose 'im?"

"Thank dah makah!" Romeo hugged his threadbear jacket close to himself. "Crip snuck off. Racer was- emphasis on was- s'posed to be watching dah kid, but he snuck off. Is he okay?"

"Yeah, what's he doin' up dere?" Specs squinted. Jack watched as Henry's hand deftly moved inside the coat pocket of a stranger. The boy clutched something dark blue in his fist, which sank in his pocket without any changes to his worried expression at all. Must have been a slow day for Henry to go back to picking pockets… which may or may not have been a

"Ummm, yeah, h-he's ok." Jack shook his head, "Listent, fellas, mebbe, you should take him home now. It's getting late."

A minute later, Romeo helped Crutchie stand, and when the boy only blinked blearily through eyes that looked like fractured sky, Jack helped him. He ruffled David's hair one last time, and then scooped up Crutchie in his arms, handing the crutch to Romeo.

"Hey, goodnight Mr. and Mrs. Jacobs," he whispered as he went through the kitchen. Mrs. Jacobs, with two bowls of soup in her hands on her way up to the sick room, paused.

"You aren't staying for dinner, Jack?"

"No, 'm sorry Ma'am. You've been real kind, but this runaway needs to get back to his bed."

"You're welcome to bring him to the, um… to my daughter's old room for the night."

"Nah, that's alright." Jack had too much pride for that. He would help a friend by tending his fever, he could accept charity from a nun, and he could humor his sick brother into letting him stay by his side, but he could never take advantage of hospitality from people like the Jacobs. They soup pot was small, and barely full. "Good night, Ma'am, sir."

And with that, the three boys joined the rest on the street, and melted into a frozen night.

…

Jack Kelly stood on top of the world. In his left hand was a glass of the coolest, sweetest tea he'd ever had, and in his right was a paintbrush with a fine, shiny handle and the softest bristles, dipped in pale lavender, like a sunset. Like a Santa Fe sunset. He stood on a peak of soft grass overlooking a canvas with a picture of a town that seemed to be swallowed by the great bluish-yellow sky of early morning. His brush touched the skirt of a woman in the picture, and she sidestepped it, grinning up at him from her place on the scene below. She ran to the edge of the canvas and folded her arms, only small wisps of purple paint with little peach hands, laughing as her warm eyes followed his brush. Katherine. His Katherine.

He redipped the brush after rinsing it. A soothing nut-brown made the thin line of a crutch close to a darker shade of the same color to make a leg, slightly turned in. His best friend- his brother- swung the crutch up in greeting, and hobbled over to where Katherine stood, watching their world come to life. He shrugged, his little painted face smiling, and tossed the crutch aside. It stirred up a tan shroud of dust. Standing straight, Crutchie put his hands on his hips and clicked his heels. Jack smiled as he painted the lively shadow. It didn't occur to him that his paintings had never danced before.

Les, Davey, Specs, Race, Albert, Elmer… all the guys, and even Spot Conlon appeared, one by one. And then the slender ebony hooves and cream colored mane of a muscular palomino took shape. He painted his own vest and blue shirt, and instead of a Newsboy cap, a sturdy stetson, dark brown. But he couldn't paint his face before the horse stomped, and the whole scene crumbled into a blurry blue-gray as Jack slowly blinked his eyes. He rolled over to feel Crutchie's warm arm and stiff fingers flexing slowly in sleep. The kid groaned, "Jeck…"

"You okay Crutch?"

"Yeah. You was dreamin', I think." Silence followed. "What was it about?"

Jack's mind skipped over his short life in the moments after the question.

His first memory of his bare feet stepping on sharded glass, and crying alone in an alleyway. His seventh birthday- the day he realized he didn't remember his real one, but he had to be seven. His first drawing, on the roof of a bakery, just smelling the scent of fresh bread while his eight year-old stomach turned.

And finding Crutchie later that day, curled up next to a wrought-iron fence, sleeping in the cold, with his arms wrapped around both legs. Crutchie knew more about Jack than Jack did. Jack Kelly's brother, Crutch Morris- it sounded easy. But the Manhattan boy was unaccustomed, even now, after years of sharing dreams and thoughts, to people caring. He could barely open his mouth. He'd made a promise to Crutchie. And Jack Kelly never broke a promise; but even so, Katherine wasn't any closer to him than before, and Santa Fe was further away than it had ever been. Crutchie's leg was worse; the strike hadn't saved the Jacob's from disaster. If anything, It had brought them to their knees. The strike couldn't stop the World from sucking the light out of a seventeen-year-old's eye. It sure hadn't saved him from failing his boys.

He rolled over, away from Crutchie, so the younger boy didn't see the shame burning in his eyes, or the tears trailing down his cheeks.

Barely audible, although Crutchie heard it, he murmured, "Santa Fe."

Sorry it's short guys, I had a crazy long day. Going to try to write chapter 3 for Partners in Crime, and post it this evening or this afternoon. Keep your eyes peeled for it:)

Cheers, and thanks for reading!