The night was warm and humid against Spot's skin. Summer. That meant autumn was just around the corner, which meant winter would follow. Winter meant bitter cold, and that meant sick kids and less sales, which meant hungry sick kids. And Spot didn't want to think about it right now. His head was spinning, and his pockets were full. Things were taken care of for this month. Next month would take care of itself.

He turned around a pylon and headed down the gangway. His feet ran ahead of the rest of his body. He stumbled, arm flying out to catch himself on the rough, unfinished wood of the dock. The world tilted and writhed around him, the result of too much to drink. Not just beer, but three big tumblers of Scotch and a strange French wine called Vin Marian. That had really punched him up. Made everything okay, everything really, really... good.

He could tell that buzz was wearing off now. But he was still floating enough that he didn't care about anything. Not right now.

After a long trek made all the longer by the way the gangplank kept rolling out for miles in front of him, Spot reached the lower level of the pier. Floundered over to a barrel and then climbed on it. Shoes, socks, pants were strewn over the wooden planks. He could hear water splashing down below.

"Sammy?" he called, tilting his head back towards the stars. The wind blew, cooling the flush on his heated face. "That you?"

The only answer was an increase of splashing. Then there was the tidal wave sound of a body being heaved out of water. A moment later, Sammy appeared.

Spot watched as his partner in crime moved toward him. Sammy was better known as Shadow; in fact, Spot was the only one who called him Sammy. The kid had showed up in Brooklyn about two years ago. No one knew him, no one had ever seen him. He just appeared out of thin air, bought his papes and went out to sell. For almost three weeks he'd done that. Never saying nothing to anyone, not even to Red, who'd been the leader back then. Sammy was allowed to stay because he didn't cause any trouble, never appeared on anyone's territory, never stuck his neck out. But no one knew anything about him. He showed up in the morning and disappeared after his last pape was sold, slipping back into the shadows of the city.

Back then, Spot had been concerned with securing his place as the next leader of the Brooklyn newsboys. Red was aging out of the game, and Spot knew he was the only one smart enough to take over. But he had to be more than smart. He had to be tough, too.

What God had given Spot in brains, he'd neglected in brawn. That didn't mean Spot couldn't hold his own.

The day Sammy had officially become Shadow, Spot had gotten into it with two older boys who thought they could bully some of the little ones. It was him against them, and he'd been doing fine. Bloody, bruised, but he was giving it back just as good. Had knocked one out and was working on the second, when, suddenly, there'd been a shout.

"Spot, behind you!"

He'd whirled at the warning to find a third guy sneaking up on him, a metal pole in his hand, raised and ready to bring down on Spot's head.

Spot feinted. Had just moved when, out of nowhere, a rock flew through the air. Cut into the thug's temple, gouging a huge chunk of flesh. Blood spurted, flooding into his eyes.

The thug howled.

The crowd around them, incensed at the foul play, got a weapon to Spot. He brought it down on the thug's head, turned and took out the man he'd been facing before.

Sammy had been the one who'd shouted the warning. He'd shot the rock with his slingshot with unerring skill. From that day on, he'd been with Spot every step of the way. At his back in fights. Keeping kids out of the Refuge. Distributing the wealth to those starving kids who needed it. He was Spot's Shadow, and Spot never did anything without him.

Except, of course, once a month. When Spot had his own business he had to do that no one knew about. Could ever know about. Not Sammy, not no one.

Sammy, dressed in his wet underwear, climbed on a box across from Spot's. He folded his legs under him. Combed his fingers through his hair. "Where you been?"

Spot didn't answer. Kept looking at Sammy. His eyes seemed to glow in the moonlight, all grey and shiny. Light eyes, dark rings around them. Long, dark lashes. Captivating. Kid sold over half his papes because of those eyes. Women loved them, loved when Sammy batted his eyelashes and gazed up at them. Men weren't immune, neither. They were a witch's eyes. Or whatever a boy witch was called. He did magic with 'em.

"Spot?"

He blinked. Shook his head, then latched back onto those eyes, the center of the world in the spinning.

When Spot still didn't answer, Sammy sighed. Looked off over the water. "Rolli-Polli lost his papes to a milk truck. Near got run over himself. Driver was drunk and the horse got free. Rolli hurt his ankle, got a cut on his face and is pretty banged up. He's practically starving, so I gave him half of what I made today. Got Richie and Lil' Bob to buy him meals."

"Ain't he selling?"

"Not much. Kid's shy."

Spot rubbed his forehead. "Shortstop can train him the next few days. They might be a good team. He's all brash, Rolli's shy and sweet. People like contrasts like that. And Shortstop's always had trouble selling to ladies."

"Rolli don't sell to no one."

"So, Shorty will teach him how to get started. I'll talk to 'em tomorrow."

Sammy nodded. Grabbed his shirt and pants and pulled them on. He fished out a cigarette from his pants' pocket. Lit it. "You all right?" He pulled on the cigarette then exhaled a cloud of smoke.

He scrubbed at his neck. His arms. He was coming down now, feeling all uncomfortable. Not like before. "I'm fine," he lied. "Why?"

"You keep squirming. Look like you wanna wiggle out of your skin."

He hadn't realized. But, yeah, his skin was prickling, like ants marching up and down his body.

The grey eyes were latched onto Spot's face. Contemplative. Smoke circled Sammy's head, dissipating rings that he enjoyed blowing.

He blew another set before speaking again. "You smell like alcohol. I can smell you from here."

"I was out drinkin' with Jacky and his boys."

"No, you weren't." Statement. Matter of fact, no guessing.

"What? You following me or something?"

Sammy blew another chain of rings. Shook his head and ground out the cigarette. "Don't need to follow you to know you're lying. I know you." He shrugged. "Anyway, I was too busy to trail you. Rolli wasn't the only problem around here."

Spot bristled. He hated being judged. Having it coming from Sammy was the worst kind of betrayal. Especially on account of what Spot had been doing.

White hot rage blinded him. He pushed off from the barrel and threw himself at Sammy. Fisted his shirt, tugged him up. "You implying I ain't handling the problems around here? That I abandoned you or somethin'?"

Sammy just looked up at him. Hands at his sides, face up. Shorter than Spot, but never intimidated by anything.

"I ain't implying anything. I'm just sayin'. You weren't here, and I was too busy putting out fires to follow you around."

"Sometimes, fires need burn without me. I can't do everything." He pulled Sammy closer only to shove him away.

Sammy stumbled back. Caught himself against the box he'd been sitting on. "Something wrong, Spot?" he drawled in a dry voice.

"No." He retreated from Sammy. Into the shadows of the pier. Turned away, leaned his forehead against the pylon. "No, there ain't nothin' wrong. Just wound up. Drunk and... sick. Whatever."

Silence. Then Sammy cleared his throat. "Almost ever since I've known you, every month you disappear. Once Red stepped down and put you in charge, you're gone. You tell me everything, but you don't tell me this."

"It's nothing you need to worry about."

"First I thought it was a girl. Then, maybe, gambling. Or opium or something."

"It's not anything like that." Spot turned. Leaned against the pylon. "Stuff like that screws with your head. They all cost money. I ain't in this life to lose."

Sammy nodded. "Except you're unhappy. It hurts, whatever you're doing. You come back drunk. More than. You snap at everyone. Mean. Hurtin'. I don't like seeing it. And I don't like that you won't tell me."

"It's nothing..."

"What if something happens to you?"

He rolled his eyes.

"Spot," he started again.

He interrupted. "Sammy." He sighed. "What I do, where I go. It's to keep you safe. All of you."

"What do you mean?"

"You remember when we first became partners? I took you out to the park. Sent you over to those men to sell?"

Sammy nodded.

"I told you never to go without me. But if you wanted to secure your sales, do what they wanted?"

He nodded again. "Yeah. And they always wanted me to sit on their laps. Until I got too old. Every morning. Made a fortune off them."

"You never went there without me, right?" he asked, voice sharp.

"Never. You told me not to."

Relieved, Spot sagged a bit. "Well, those were bad men, Sammy. Real bad. Only reason I let you near them was cause you're tough and I was there to look after you. Those men, they wanted to..."

"I ain't stupid. I know what those kinds of men do to kids."

Right. Of course he did. Sammy wasn't stupid. He knew about people.

"Do those men have anything to do with where you disappear?"

"Kind of." He clenched his fists. "Sammy..."

"Just tell me, Spot. Because the next time, I will follow you. I let it go on too long."

"You can't follow me."

"You can't shake your shadow, Spot." He gave him a small smile. "I'll follow you and won't be able to see me. I'll see where you go, what you do. And if I don't like it, I'll get you out."

"No." This time, it wasn't anger that drew him away from the pylon. It was fear. Fear, and he hated feeling fear. But it wasn't fear for himself. He was taken care of. "Sammy, you can't. You can't follow me. Christ, if you do..."

"If I do, what? Spot, what is it that you do?"

He closed his eyes, hands seeking out Sammy's shoulders. Gripping them. "Look, there are things I have to do to take care of us. Things. Deals. The little ones starve and it ain't right. They need clothes and a place to stay."

"We cover it. We take care of our own."

"Yeah, but, sometimes it takes a little extra." He opened his eyes again. "A little grease to make a bull look the other way. To get a coat or socks or shoes without holes. To keep those men away from my boys. And keep the pimps away from 'em, too."

Sammy narrowed his eyes. "So, what? You pimp yourself?"

"It ain't like that," he said, shaking his head. "I... they're just some rich, bored men. They like me I look young. That's all. Just once a month, just a few hours. And then I've got enough money for the month to make sure everyone survives."

The look Sammy was giving him broke Spot's heart. Wide, horrified eyes. Mouth open. Face, too pale even in the moonlight.

"Spot." He reached out. Placed a shaking hand against Spot's chest. Up to his neck, then his cheek. "You don't have to..."

"They wanted you. Way back. I said no and traded. They keep asking for other boys, but I keep them away. It's just me who can do business with them."

"No one needs to do this with them. There's got to be another way. I mean... Jack Kelly don't..."

"Jack Kelly don't care about no one but Jack Kelly. Manhattan ain't like us. Brooklyn takes care of its own. All of 'em." He rubbed his nose, closing his eyes. "It's not so bad. They don't do anything bad to me. Just… I don't know. Like me to touch them. Like to touch me." He shrugged. Opened his eyes, feeling his cheeks heat as he said, "It feels kinda good."

Sammy shook his head. "But you don't feel good about it. You come back sick, like you're on something. Come back ashamed."

"Sometimes a man's gotta…"

"No." Sammy pushed him. Then grabbed him, fisting Spot's shirt. "There are things a man's gotta do to protect his own. This ain't one of them. You're not a toy. And you're not going anywhere to let some dirty men play with you like you is one. We can get money some other way."

"Not…" He exhaled hard, feeling helpless. "It's easy money."

"It's dirty money. I'm not letting you do it anymore."

Spot got into Shadow's face. His jaw is clenched and fists balled. "You don't tell me what to do. I'm the leader of Brooklyn. Me. You answer to me."

But Sammy just shook his head. "You. Are not ever going back."

The prickly sensation in his skin has gotten worse. It felt like a thousand bugs biting him. And his brain wasn't working too well, either. He wanted to sleep. But there was fire in veins, and he was shaking.

"You don't tell me what to do! I can make my own Goddamn decisions about what's right for my boys. If I want to let some sick bastards touch me and make me come, then what's it your business?"

"You want someone to rub your dick, fine, I don't care. You could have a whole line of men do it for you, in broad daylight for all I care. But you're not selling yourself like some cheap whore!"

Spot socked him. Right in the face, catching him in the eye.

Sammy came back at him. Threw himself, arms around Spots middle, pushing him to the docks. They wrestled a few moments before Spot flipped them. Straddled Sammy and punched him again.

Blood burst from his nose, flooding the lower half of his face.

Sammy squirmed and slid out from under Spot. "I don't have to take this," he said, swiping at his nose and smearing the blood across his face. "You want to play like you's a martyr, go ahead. I ain't watching it." Angrily, he grabbed his shoes and shoved his feet in them.

"Where you think you're going?"

"Away from you."

His stomach turned over. Spot knew he was going to be sick any moment. The shakes were getting worse and saliva was filling his mouth. "Fine. Get outta here. I don't want you around anyway."

"Good."

"Yeah, good!"

Sammy stormed off.

Spot turned and just managed to lean over the side of the dock before he lost his dinner. And, because of where he'd been, he'd had quite a bit of it. He kept vomiting until he was pretty sure he could taste blood. His head pounded and his face was sticky with sweat. Cold, even in the humid heat of the Brooklyn night.

He felt like dirt. Like lower than dirt. Like a maggot. And he'd punched up his best friend on top of it.

Well. Sammy would come back. This wasn't their first fight. Wouldn't be their last. For right now, Spot needed sleep.

He leaned over the edge of the dock again and spit the last of the vile taste from his mouth. Then, still unsteady on his feet, and feeling lower than low, he headed up the docks to the lodging house, hoping his bed wouldn't be too cold without Sammy at his side.

Spot woke up the next morning with a pounding headache and a black cloud surrounding him. It was so heavy and oppressive that he felt tears pricking behind his eyes and didn't even know why. He wasn't weak. He didn't cry. But everything felt so hopeless and desolate. Life was a black hole and he was stuck in the middle.

To make things worse, he was missing his shadow. He knew he'd been an ass last night, that he never shoulda hit Sammy. But he'd been so angry. So messed up. So…

Ashamed.

And that was the real truth of it. He was ashamed of what he'd been doing. Of who he'd been with and of being found out. Yeah, like he told Sammy, in the middle of it all, it felt all right. The alcohol and food was good. The hands on him was fine. In the heat of it, he could ignore what he was doing and just lose himself in the hedonistic pleasure of it all.

But after. When he was walking home, head spinning, skin crawling, remembering what he'd done… and the money in his pocket reminding him of what he was…

It wasn't so good then. So, like Sammy'd said, Spot got mean. He lashed out. And Sammy had been caught in it.

He rolled over and pulled the blankets over his head. He could hear the rest of the boys getting up and getting ready, but he didn't want to move. His stomach felt like he'd swallowed a ton of lead.

"Hey, Spot!" someone called. "Where's Shadow?"

He squeezed his eyes shut. Of all the fucking nights to forget to pull the sheet closed. He and Shadow didn't pay for a private room—neither wanted to spend the money—but they'd scouted a bunk in the corner and hung a sheet in front of it to give them privacy. Usually, Spot pulled it shut when he went to bed. Usually.

"Why's that your business?" he croaked out, throat bone dry.

"Just wondering where your shadow is. Rare to see you without."

He swallowed hard, a pain lancing through his throat. "Shadow and I had a disagreement last night. He's off licking his wounds."

A silence fell. No, it wasn't Spot and Shadow's first fight, but it was a rare occurrence. Shadow didn't usually talk enough to fight with. He was a presence at Spot's back, silent and strong. Confident. He radiated competence and helped Spot keep the boys in line.

Not that he couldn't do that on his own. But having a right-hand man helped.

"What'd you fight about?"

He let out a long sigh. Rolled onto his back and pulled the blanket off his face. "It was a private matter." He sat up and rubbed his eyes. They felt dry and itchy. His mouth tasted like old vomit. Well. After sneaking into the lodging house after hours, he'd gone straight to bed without bothering to brush his teeth.

Arms and legs barely cooperating, he climbed out of bed.

The boys were silent as he crossed the room to the bathroom. Watching him. Worried.

"You look sick," one of the boys said.

Spot tried to summon the ire needed to get into his face and stare him down. But he couldn't. So, he just said, "I'm fine," and kept going. He used the toilet, washed his hands and face, brushed his teeth. Shaved, although, once again, Mother Nature had been disinclined to grant him any facial hair to warrant the use of a razor. He could smell the aroma of stale alcohol on him, but it'd be too much trouble to take a bath right now. He'd take a dip at the docks later, if he felt any better. Way he felt, all he wanted to do was crawl back into bed and sleep for the next hundred years.

All the boys had a subdued air as they left the lodging house to get to work. Spot could hear the whispers behind him, his boys speculating what was going on, if they needed to be worried, what they should do. A couple younger ones ran off and returned with a mug of coffee and bacon sandwich for him.

"Thanks, kids," he said, taking both. The coffee helped clear some of the fog in his brain. The sandwich was nearly rejected by his still sensitive stomach, but ultimately stayed down and went some way to making him feel marginally more human.

They made it to the paper before the gate opened. The headline wasn't even up yet. Spot finished off his coffee, looking around. When he eyes fell on Rolli, and he saw the kid's banged up face and the limp he was sporting, he remembered his conversation with Sammy the night before.

"Shortstop," he called. He finished the coffee and handed the mug off to a kid.

Shortstop came running up. He was a young kid, about nine, with a lean face and bright eyes. He wore a ratty Brooklyn Dodger's cap he'd found on the street and had a baseball mitt tied with a string to his pants. "Yeah, Spot?" he asked, breathless with excitement from being singled out.

"I need you to show Rolli-Polli the game. Rolli, get over here."

Eyes going wide, the other boy limped over. He was almost curled in on himself with fear, trying to hide.

Spot crouched down in front of him. "So. Shadow told me you had some trouble yesterday."

He nodded in short, jerky movements.

"Don't worry about it. We've all had a run in with a milk truck or a carriage or something. Nothing to be ashamed of. But you ain't selling like you need to. You don't sell, you starve. You got that, right?"

"Y-yes. I know." He licked his lips and hunched his shoulders some more.

Spot clapped his hand on Rolli's arm. "You're going to stick around with Shortstop for a few days. He'll show you the best selling spots and show you how to get people to buy your papers. There ain't no reason you can't be selling fifty a day. A hundred a day. You're young, you're strong, and you've got round, fat cheeks that the ladies love." He poked one of Rolli's cheeks. "Just remember to look 'em in the eye and give it your best. Okay?"

"Okay, Spot." He seemed to inflate, shoulders straightening and chest puffing out. "I won't let you down."

Spot smiled and tapped the kid on the head with his cane. "Good man." He stood up and scrubbed his hand over his eyes. "We got a headline yet?"

"They're posting it now."

He went to the gate and leaned against it, looking inside. And groaned as the headline was revealed: Trolley Strike Drags on for Third Week.

A collective groan went up from the newsies.

"How the hell am I supposed to sell with that headline?"

"Can't they even pretend to write something more interesting?"

"Come on, boys," Spot said, even though his heart was sinking. He could sell anything. Most days. Today, he wasn't sure he could sell the best headline to easiest mark. He wasn't feeling himself today. Like part of him was missing.

Like he drove part of himself off.

"You know what they say. Headlines don't sell papes. We do. Don't be intimated. We're newsies. We're Brooklyn. And we ain't gonna let a little thing like a headline ruin our day. Are we?"

"No!"

"All right then." He straightened his cap and twirled his cane, putting on a good show for his boys. "Let's go sell some papes."