It wouldn't take them long to walk back to the lodging house, and neither felt the need to speak after Race's last comment. But it was a comfortable silence, no tension of the previous week or so infiltrating it.

Letting his mind wander, Jack was certain of one thing. If Racetrack was back, that meant that either Race or Spot had forgiven him—had realized the truth. And it very obviously hadn't been Race. He did now, yes, but when Jack had first seen him, there had definitely been a grudge there. So Spot had to have forgiven him. Truly. Brooklyn was back on his side. And that indeed was something.

"Jack! Jack!" someone yelled, and Jack's head snapped up.

"Mush?" he called back.

Mush came tearing seemingly out of nowhere, his overenthusiastic feet stumbling through the mud that the dust had become, David following more carefully. "Jack, you's come back! Me and Davey's just been lookin' for ya. We didn't know where you's gone to." Then he froze, startled. "—Race?"

"That's me name," Race said.

"You decided to come back," David said to him stiffly.

"More like the decision was made for me." Race shrugged. "But, yeah, somethin' like that." David raised his eyebrows at that, but Race didn't elaborate.

"We's been out lookin' for ya for hours," Mush said to Jack. "Me an' Dave."

"That true?" Jack asked.

"Yeah," David said. He glanced quickly, almost guiltily, at Race, then looked back to Jack. "Mush—Mush told me what happened."

"Oh yeah?" The fight. Me…hitting Race. Jack looked at David for a second, and David nodded slightly. Jack relaxed somewhat. It was okay.

Glancing at Race, then Jack, then back to Race, Mush asked, "Is everythin' awright? I mean—ya know—"

Jack threw an arm around Mush's shoulders. "Everythin's fine, Mushy. Me an' Race talked, an' everythin's gonna be fine."

A small smile broke out on Mush's face. "That's good."

Race turned to David. "Hey, Davey?"

"Yeah, Race?"

"I's sorry 'bout that fight." As he said it, the other boy visibly relaxed a bit.

"Wait, what fight?" Jack interrupted.

Race smirked—a strangely familiar expression—and continued talking to David, as though Jack hadn't said a word. "How'd'ya explain that one to your muddah?"

"Didn't need to," David said, tossing a slightly mischievous look in Jack's direction. "You didn't leave a mark on my face. Once I got the blood off, that is."

"Blood? What blood?" Jack demanded. "Racetrack, what's this 'bout?"

"Jacky-boy," Race said, attempting to drape an arm over Jack's shoulders and failing due to height differences. "That is another story for another day."

Jack shrugged him off. "Don't call me that. Ya hit Dave?"

"Ya shoulda seen him hit back," Race said, holding his fists up and punching at the air. "One-two. Wham! He ain't half-bad if ya get him riled up enough. First time I ever seen him really fight."

"And the last," David said, laughing.

Mush looked completely confused, and Jack looked like he couldn't decide whether to be angry or amused by the whole situation. Shrugging it off, Mush asked cheerily, "You's comin' back, Race? You's really comin' back?"

"Don't tell me you's got a complaint 'bout that," Race said, throwing his hands up in mock-despair. "There's just no pleasin' some people."

Jack fake-punched him in the gut, and Race slugged him back playfully. "No hard feelin's, then, Jacky-boy?" Race asked.

"There's gonna be hard feelin's if you's callin' me that name again."

"Dear me," Race said, putting a hand on his heart. "Was that a threat, Jacky-boy?" Grinning hugely, he promptly took off at a dead run, racing back to the lodging house, with Jack right on his tail.