Two weeks later…

Patrick heard the rain last night.

The clip-clopping of horses' hooves and the sound of wheels in slush and chattering voices marred together in his muddled mind. Once the sounds separated and he fully entered this world again he sat up and got up, slipping on the wet stone. Being a newsie had never occurred to him, and he wished it hadn't. For he still couldn't pay his way for lodgings and he wasn't getting any better at it. Maybe he was trying too hard not to lie. Because 'improving the truth' made him feel unscrupulous and just like the greedy, sneaky newspaper tycoons he worked for, and sick to the stomach. He had been a pickpocket, and not that kind of pickpocket. His victims never even saw him, and if they did see him, they would know exactly what he was doing. It wasn't lying. It was just another natural occurrence in this world. In this seamless, shady city of New York.

Patrick leaned against the wall of a building and drew a cigar from the pack he had hawked last night, trying to ignore his slightly grumbling stomach. The only things people sold outside were fruit, so fruit was the only thing he ever ate, unless he was lucky enough to find an unsizable man or an unaccompanied woman carrying a package of some other sorts. That hadn't happened yet. Nor had he found the courage to go into a store under a merchant's shady eye and do his business there, ever since the encounter with the pawnbroker. But if he got caught, at least he would have a place to sleep—the Refuge.

Patrick liked to ease into the day, and now that he had decided to stop selling newspapers, he had all the freedom he wanted. Most days began with a cigar, like today did.

"Hey, kid." Patrick jumped and looked up, startled.

Two boys towered over him.

"My name's Oscah Delancy, and we'ah gonnah be dah best a' friends." The boy with the bowler hat smirked, sending chills up Patrick's spine.

"IF… you'se willin' to do a little somthin' foah us." Said the other guy, who had a moustache.

"See dose boys ovah theah?" The first guy spoke again, pointing across the street.

Two boys were play-fighting while several others smiled and laughed, looking on.

"What about them?" Patrick asked.

"See dah shoaht one? Ya know, like you."

The boys laughed.

"Yeah." Patrick said through gritted teeth.

"We wanch ya to, ya know, woik 'im ovah." Chuckled the one named Oscar.

"Yeah, real good." Said the other one.

The boys both laughed again.

"No." Patrick said.

They stopped laughing.

"What?" The boy named Oscar asked quietly.

"No." Said Patrick. He was disgusted. He would never, ever do anything like that. I'll never live to see the day I do, he thought.

Silence.

"Okay." The unnamed boy said quietly. "Den we'se gonna woik you ovah!"

"No!" Patrick's stomach turned over like a turkey roasting on a spit. I'll die, he thought. I'll die!

Suddenly he turned around and ran into the street.

The two boys chuckled again. "Stupid kid."

Patrick watched them, frozen in his tracks. Surely, they would come after him. Surely, they would…

Still laughing, the boys walked away.

Patrick was stunned.

Then, relief washed over him.

He closed his eyes, savoring the moment in which his life had just been spared.

He closed his eyes, but only for a moment, and turned slightly in his position, stepping out of balance in his relaxation.

He opened his eyes, and saw only brown and black, long faces and beady, doleful, and now spooked, white-edged eyes. And high-pitched, animal-like sounds. The unwitting faces of death.

Patrick drew in a sharp breath when he knew what it was. "Oh, no." He croaked.

Patrick didn't see the commotion he had caused. He didn't see the overturned carriage or the passengers tumbling out. He didn't see concerned newsboys filling up the street and for once not even thinking about selling papes. He didn't see the Bulls arrive. He didn't hear the ladies scream. He didn't hear the Delancy Brothers laugh loudly, filling the air with a sickening plague.

3 months later found the voice of a mother mingling with the yelling of newsies. She had begun marching on for her new life's journey, looking for her son. We shall never know what Mrs. O'Malley felt in her head, whether she knew whether she would ever find him again or not, but it didn't matter, because when it comes down to it, our hearts are the only place where we truly believe: When we hope we will make it and no matter how much we tell ourselves the chances are low are still heartbroken when we don't, and when we tell ourselves we won't make it yet somehow still hope and are not saddened while it's not proven. So Patrick's mother searched her heart out, and never stopped thinking about Patrick and wondering what he was doing wherever he was. She didn't know Patrick was a thin, but guileless cloud of smoke, gone from the world and not doing anything, not thinking or breathing or talking, but for all she did know he could've been. Maybe even if she knew it somehow logically, and knew exactly what it meant- that she would never see her son again- she never stopped hoping.