January 1900-5 months post-strike

Winter was always brutal in the newsboys' lodge house. At least on sticky, steamy summer days the boys could open all the windows and strip down to nothing but shorts, laying flat on their backs on the rooftop, or lounge in the fire escape to catch sips of breeze.

But during the long, dark, East coast winters, wind and snow and still frigid air seeped into mice holes, in between their sheets, and into their spines, lungs, and grimy fingernails. Donations of hand-me-down coats, watered down vegetable soup, and lukewarm hot chocolate from the Sisters at the convent up the block helped some, but not enough. Never enough. So the boys braced themselves dawn after dawn for stinging winds, runny noses, and chapped lips. They shouted half-true headlines until they were hoarse, trying to sell out as quick as possible. Both Crutchie and Race had hacked and wheezed their way through the past three Christmases. Often by February, the boys' hands were so dry and wind-burnt their palms would crack as they folded their papers in the morning.

"Headline better not be about this damn storm coming." Mush complained as half a dozen boys stomped into the distribution center early one January morning.

"Yeah, we all knows it's winter." Crutchie said. He rubbed his hands together to try to warm them.

"Ah, we'll sell plenty today, fellas." Jack smiled. "I'm feeling good."

"Well, I ain't." Specs said.

Albert, standing behind him, sneezed loudly. "Think we'll get some pity tips with them colds, at least?" He asked, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. Specs cleared his throat.

"Your ol' ugly mug get pity tips from rich gals?" Romeo said. "Not a chance!"

"Ah, bug off." Specs said. Albert sneezed again, and Mush turned his head to cough into his broad shoulder. He'd been coughing for a month.

With their poor food, long hours on their feet, and close quarters, the boys all knew that once one of them got sick they were all bound to get it sooner or later. Most of the time, they sighed and pushed through-papes don't sell themselves.

Davey and Les brought a wave of cold air with them, both ducking their faces into their thick jackets as they came around the corner.

"'ey buddy." Jack swung an arm around Les' shoulder. "Ya feelin' betta?"

Les nodded and shrugged away from the embrace. "I'm fine. Much better. Ma's babying me." Les was the only newsboy to have taken a sick day all year. Even the nasty chest cold that swept through the group every December rarely kept the boys off their corners. But Les was five or six years younger than most of the boys. And unlike most of the boys, he and Davey had a warm, safe bed to go home to each night, and a mother to fuss over them. Everyone knew this, but no one said so.

"You did have a fever yesterday." Davey pointed out, placing a protective hand atop his brother's dark hair. "Don't need ya out in this weather selling papes and making yourself sicker."

"Join the dying." Mush said dryly, gesturing towards Specs and Albert, who were sitting side by side on the empty distribution wagon, sleepy and sniffling.

The window to the print shop flew open and the circulation bell clanged. The boys lined up with their fistfuls of change to buy their papers for the day.

"What's the headline fellas?" Jack clapped his hands. "Anything good?"

"Dammit just tone it down, willya, sunshine." Mush snapped.

"You shut up!" Tommy Boy whipped around.

"Buy your papes and hit the road, fellas!" Jack gave Mush a shove. "We all cold and tired. That ain't news."

"Train derails: No injuries." Tommy Boy read the headline. "No injuries! Great! How the hell are we supposed to sell a story if nobody died?"

"How dare a guy have some joy, huh?" Crutchie said to Les with a crooked grin. Les smiled. Davey yawned.

Jack bounded up the block. "Papes don't sell themselves, fellas! Let's get out there!"

No one else seemed to share Jack's enthusiasm.

Jack Kelly's confident stride slowed to a shuffle once his brothers had scattered in all directions. His throat had been feeling like sandpaper for days, and the sunrise over the city failed to warm the cold, stiff air. At least it wasn't snowing. Yet. Jack walked a few more blocks and positioned himself on a corner across from the barbershop.

Gotta get these papes sold before the snow hits. He thought. Gotta keep the boys under one roof. He sniffled.

The headline wasn't as bad as Mush had predicted, but it wasn't stellar either. So Jack improvised. "Train crash in Buffalo: Man decapitated!" He tried out one of the big words Davey had read in his books. "Extra! Extra! Ma'am? Girl loses leg in firey train crash! Heard it right here, sir! Train explodes in Buffalo!"

By 10am, everyone who wanted a morning paper had gotten one already. Even though he hadn't walked any more than a usual morning of selling, he was so sore. His throat was killing him now, and everytime he sniffed it got worse. It wasn't even noon yet.

"Toughen up, Kelly." He muttered to himself. He crossed his arms and stuck his stiff, red fingers under his armpits, searching for any warmth. "Get ya papes!" He called to a passing group.

By mid-afternoon, dark clouds began alternating rain that froze and snow that melted. People rushed from building to building, paying no attention to the newsboys shouting to sell their last copies.

As the snow and sleet fell harder, Jack quit. He had 6 papers left that he knew would never sell. Thankfully he could get his money back from the distribution center, but he was so exhausted he contemplated going straight home. Life ain't free. He told himself. He tried to do the math in his head of how much money he'd get back, but he couldn't quite think straight. Anyways, every penny mattered.

The walk home was 14 city blocks, plus a 3 block detour to sell back his papes. Jack trudged along, his wet boots heavier with every step. Every breath of sharp, cold air felt like swallowing broken glass.

All the boys arrived back at the lodging house around the same time, dripping and bone cold. They passed around towels to dry off and wrapped themselves in blankets from their beds. Some groaned at the thought of more watery soup from the nuns, but at least it might be warm. As he lumbered up the stairs, Jack spotted Tommy Boy and Albert sitting in their bunks, still in their snow-soaked clothes.

"Get out of them wet things." Jack said hoarsely. "Ya wanna catch ya death?"

Tommy Boy grabbed the bunk above him and swung himself up. "Sound like you the one who's catching ya death, Jackie."

Jack cleared his throat. "I'm alright." he said.

"Ya sure 'bout that, Jack?" Crutchie asked. "You don't look real good."

"Neither do you, gimp!" Romeo called.

"Knock it off!" Jack said. Then he turned his head and sneezed twice.

"And?" Tommy smirked. Jack sniffed loudly and slowly raked a hand through his thick, dark hair.

"I don't need ya fellas worrying about me." He grumbled. He unbuttoned his shirt, and peeled the soaking fabric from his skin. Goosebumps prickled on his arms and chest. "I ain't sick. I'm cold and tired, is all. We all is." He sat down on his bed. It felt so good to sit. And to close his eyes, just for a minute.

"Whatever ya say, Jack." Someone said.

The boys went downstairs to sit closer to the heater. Tommy Boy pulled a deck of cards out from under his pillow and rounded up a game of poker with the younger boys. Bits of conversation and tired, ragged laughter floated upstairs. Jack would get up and join them soon. What would they do for supper? He'd see if he could talk the nuns into more soup, or have all the guys chip in a few cents to run down to the bakery before it got too dark and snowy. Jack kicked off his boots and reached for his blanket to wrap around his bare shoulders. He'd rest for just a minute.

"Ugh, how long have I been asleep?" Jack mumbled. His hair was stuck to the nape of his neck and he couldn't breathe through his nose. His mouth was dry.

"An hour or two." Crutchie said. He hung onto the line of bunks for support as he walked, then sat down at the foot of Jack's bed. Jack sat up. "How ya feeling?"

"Fine." He said. He muffled a round of coughs into his blanket. "Did y'all get anything to eat?"

"The sisters brought soup and bread. Wanted us to have something in our bellies before the storm came."

Jack looked out at the fire escape, already piled with several inches of snow. "I think it's come." He said.

"Want some supper?" Crutchie asked.

"Yeah I'll come get it." Jack swung his legs over the side of the bed and buttoned his wrinkled shirt. His head weighed forty pounds.

"Sure?"

Jack nodded, sniffling and rubbing his nose. "I wanna sit by the heater."

The pair made their way slowly down the stairs, where the other newsies were gathered, playing cards by lamplight. They were all drawn and worn. Specs poured Jack the last of the soup.

"You all get enough?" He asked. He sat down at the rickety wooden table with Crutchie, Race, and Albert.

Several of the boys nodded. "Living like kings." Albert said. "We alls heard ya coughin' in your sleep. How d'ya feel?"

"I ain't any sicker than you is." He started to say something else but was cut off by more unexpectedly deep, chesty coughs.

"Maybe true." Specs said. He sounded a little stuffy too. "But no one else is as bullheaded."

"Eat up, Jackie." Tommy Boy commanded as shuffled his cards. He sat on the floor next to a handful of marbles, two cigars, and a penny. Henry, the youngest of the group, pouted at his losses but accepted another hand as Tommy dealt five cards each to the semicircle of boys gathered around him.

"Ya think ya got a fever, Jack?" Race asked.

"Nah." He took a couple bites of soup, and was glad he could barely taste anything.

Crutchie reached across the table and pressed a hand to his friend's forehead. "Yeah. Ya do."

Jack leaned away from him. "Ah, stop it." He coughed again. "So I's got a little cold. I'll live."

Henry and Crutchie stared at him, concerned.

"Stop being so damn stubborn for just five minutes, Jack Kelly." Tommy said.

"Yeah." Specs said. "Yous always taking care of us. Let us take care of you for once."

Albert nodded. "Yeah, take it easy."

Jack sighed. "Yous boys." He propped his head on his fist.

Mush, who had been sitting quietly near the stove, stood up and pulled a small paper bag out of his pocket.

"Candy?" Henry asked, wide eyed.

"Cough drops." Mush said. He took one for himself and dropped the bag in the middle of the table. "Horehound. Maybe we can all get some blasted sleep for once."

Haven't decided if I'm done with this or not yet. I like it as a one-shot, but I could get into some more drama/fluff and keep this going. I could also possibly make this a series of similar hurt/comfort 1-shots? Anyways, new to this site, not to writing or Newsies! Review if you want more! 3 -Em