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Race is the first one back.
That shouldn’t have surprised him as much as it does. After all, the nickname Racetrack doesn’t just come from a selling spot down at Sheepshead. The combination of constant adrenaline and long legs means Race could run pretty damn fast when he wants to. Still, the tense silence of the lodging house makes him uneasy. This is a place meant to be filled with life and movement and adolescent stupidity. He’d hoped his return would be met with concentrated chatter and maybe a word or two of encouragement. But standing there alone, with only the sound of his blood ringing in his ears, everything feels so very wrong. Never in all the years he’s stayed at the lodging house has it been so quiet.
It hurts to breathe.
He searches his pockets for his cigar; he needs the calm that came with the smoke. Race find his box of matches tucked safely in his vest, but his cigar – the last of the pack he’d swiped from a Midtown corner store – is not where he left it. He groans, half out of frustration and half from the pain of moving his arms. He’s lost it. The damn thing must have fallen out of his pocket when a well-timed fist to the side of the head had sent Race sprawling to the ground.
Damn, he thinks miserably. That’s at least the second worst thing to happen today.
“Racetrack?” Mister Kloppman appears from his office behind the lodging house’s front desk. “I wasn’t expecting you back so soon.”
“Hey, Kloppy,” Race says, his voice strained.
Usually, Kloppman would have bristled at the nickname and muttered something about respecting elders, but today he takes one look at Race and pulls out the first aid kit he keeps under the desk.
“Where are the others?” Kloppman asks.
Race shrugs. “Once the cops showed up, everyone sorta scattered in different directions. I figured they’d come back here.”
The silent continuation of but no one has yet lingers in the air. Kloppman makes a small tutting sound, pressing a handkerchief to Race’s bloody nose.
“Don’t want you bleeding all over my floor,” Kloppman manages a small smile, and Race appreciates the attempt at humor. Perhaps he could pretend that this was just like the last time he had to be bandaged back up, after one too many bad bets and snarky comments. Maybe Kloppman would fix Race up and he could get back out there like nothing had gone wrong.
His hopes are dashed when he sees Albert in the doorway.
The boy’s face is flushed as red as his hair. He hasn’t been wearing a button up shirt recently due to the high temperatures and it’s impossible to miss the giant gash on his arm where a sleeveless undershirt could offer no protection. Albert holds his cap in his hands so tightly that Race can see his fists shaking.
“Al—” Race says softly, approaching him the way one would a wounded animal.
Albert’s mouth flaps open and closed like a fish, which at any other time, Race might have teased him for. Now, he gently rests a hand on Albert’s shoulder, guiding him slowly up the stairs to his bed. When he hits the threadbare mattress, Albert lets out a choked sob. He lets his cap drop to the floor, his hands instead grabbing onto Race with a terrified ferocity; he buries his face in Race’s chest.
It hurts to breathe.
“It’s okay,” Race murmurs, and he hopes he sounds convincing enough. “You’s gonna be okay.”
Distantly, Race hears the door open again, but he’s too focused on Albert to fully register it. It’s not until the eerie silence of the lodging house is broken by an agonizing wail that he even looks up from the redhead.
Henry is holding the door open for Jojo and Tommy Boy, who are carrying the weight of a screaming Splasher. The young boy’s face is streaked with blood and tears, and Race is almost impressed that someone so small can cry so loudly. Jojo is whispering something Race can’t hear – though he can only guess it’s something meant to soothe Splasher’s pain. Tommy Boy’s face is ashen, but there is an anger lit behind his eyes that Race has never seen from him before.
“A billy club straight to his face,” Henry says to Kloppman before he can even ask. Kloppman looks stricken but doesn’t reply as Henry takes the first aid kit from him.
Tommy Boy sets Splasher down on his bed, the young blond’s screams fizzling out to exhausted moans. When Henry tries to sit beside Splasher, Race watches as Tommy Boy shoves Henry back, the older boy stumbling to regain his balance.
“Don’t touch him,” Tommy Boy snaps.
“Tommy, you gotta let me help him—”
“No! No one touches him!” Tommy Boy shouts. Splasher, delirious in his pain, reaches a hand out blindly. Tommy Boy turns his back to Henry, taking Splashers hand in his own. “I’m right here, Splish-Splash,” he says, his voice quavering slightly.
Race knows that Tommy Boy’s rage is only masking his fear. He and Splasher are close, all the boys are aware of this, and Tommy Boy has always been territorial of those he cares about. Race looks over at Henry, who has already moved on to examining a large bruise on Jojo’s sternum. There is a strip of bandage cloth at the foot of Splasher’s bed that Henry silently left behind. Tommy Boy takes it gingerly.
“Racer,” Henry starts, coming over to where he and Albert are sitting. Henry stares grimly at Albert’s cut. It has stopped bleeding for now, but an open wound in this part of the city is dangerously prone to infection.
“I know,” Race says, doing his best to keep his voice calm for Albert’s sake. “Wait ‘til Buttons gets here.”
It hurts to breathe.
Eventually the lodging house returns to its regular volume as more and more of the newsies make it back home, each in varying states of disarray. Specs returns with Mike and Ike in tow, the twins sporting matching black eyes. Specs’ lip is split but his glasses managed to stay intact, so he is in relatively good spirits. Buttons has Mush on his back, whose rolled up pant leg reveals a nasty scrape on his thigh. Davey is carrying Les, who Race fears for a fleeting moment is unconscious before the little Jacobs starts wriggling in his brother’s arms.
“Put me down,” Les grumbles. “I’m fine.”
Davey does, turning to look at Race. If he’s at all surprised to see Albert still wrapped tightly around Race’s torso, he doesn’t show it. “Are you alright?”
Race does his best to shrug without jostling Albert. “Hanging in there.”
“I thought the cops weren’t going to care about a bunch of kids,” Davey says. He doesn’t look to be in any considerable amount of pain, minus the nice shiner he has on his cheek. More than anything, he just seems tired.
“They ain’t supposed to,” Race replies softly, lightly stroking Albert’s hair. “Hey Dave, do me a solid; grab Buttons for me, yeah?”
Davey nods, jogging over to where Buttons and Henry are checking out the twins. Race scans the room. The reporter lady – Katherine – had left before the fighting truly started, so Race can only assume she made it back to her office or her home or wherever it was reporter ladies went. Smalls and Sniper aren’t here, but Race figures they must have gone back to the girls lodging house; he hopes and prays that’s where they’ve gone. Jack, Crutchie, Romeo, Finch, and Elmer still haven’t returned. Race tries his damnedest to keep from fearing the worst.
“Wha-wen-wron?”
Race looks down at Albert, who has finally managed to speak. “What’s that, Albo? Can’t hear you if you’s drooling all over my shirt.” Albert doesn’t laugh; Race doesn’t expect him to.
Albert pulls away slightly, still keeping as much contact as he can with Race. “What went wrong?” He repeats. Race has no answer for him.
Davey returns with Buttons, who takes one look at Albert’s cut and purses his lips tightly. “I ain’t a doctor,” he warns.
“I know,” says Race. “But you’s the best we got.”
Buttons kneels down before Albert, retrieving his sewing kit from his pocket. “I ain’t gonna lie to you, Al, this’ll hurt like a bitch.”
“And here I thought it would be all sunshine and rainbows,” Albert clenches his jaw, doing his best to keep from showing his fear. “Do what you gotta do.”
Buttons nods, pulling out a needle and thread. “Got a light?” He asks.
Albert has his silver lighter in his pocket, but Race is handing Davey his box of matches before Albert can even think to reach for it. Davey, looking like he might get sick on the floor, strikes one. Buttons holds the needle in the flame, long enough the needle is disinfected but before the heated metal would burn.
Kloppman appears behind Race and Albert. He carries a flask, sips some, then holds out to Albert. “Here, kid.”
“Thought underage drinking was banned,” Albert mutters.
“Today’s an exception,” Kloppman says. “You’re gonna need it.”
Albert begrudgingly untangles himself from Race to take the flask. He drinks a swig and sputters. “That’s awful.”
“You get used to it,” Kloppman shrugs. Albert takes another swallow.
Davey takes the flask and pours some of the clear liquor on Albert’s wound. Albert winces as the sharp sting hits his arm.
“I’m sorry,” says Davey quickly.
“You ready?” Buttons asks, holding the needle and thread with remarkably steady hands. Race wonders, in a different life perhaps, if Buttons could’ve had what it took to be a surgeon when he grew up.
“As I’ll ever be,” Albert grimaces. He shuts his eyes tightly, burying his face back into Race’s chest.
It hurts to breathe.
The sound of Albert’s muffled screams would haunt Race for the rest of his life. They aren’t even screams at first, just choked out grunts from a boy trying to keep a shred of his dignity. Albert breaks at the third stitch, shrieking as he soaks Race’s shirt with his tears. His cries catch the attention of some of the other newsies, who watch in horror as the lodging house’s bravest and most self-assured resident is reduced to pathetic sobs. The youngest of the boys – Ike, Mush, Mike, Jojo – look as though they are witnessing a nightmare come to life; they are ushered away by Specs and Henry. Davey sends Les with them. Buttons doesn’t quaver; Lord knows how he manages to keep his composure as he continues his stitches.
“You’s doing great,” Race whispers, rubbing his hand in circles around Albert’s back. He thanks God that his voice doesn’t break as Albert continues to cry. “When this is over, I’m buying you a seltzer, yeah?”
“Make it two,” Albert mumbles. In spite of everything, Race manages a weak laugh.
“Deal.”
Buttons ties off the final stitch as Albert collapses the rest of his body weight into Race in utter exhaustion. Race and Buttons help lie Albert back onto the bed.
“He needs to rest,” Buttons says.
Race still keeps his hand entwined with Albert’s, running his thumb back and forth over the cracked skin of Albert’s knuckles. “I’ll stay with him.”
Albert shakes his head slightly. “Jack ain’t back yet.”
Race is about to tell him to relax before… oh. He understands what Albert means. Jack hasn’t returned; he is acting leader. The other boys will be looking to him to figure out what to do.
It hurts to breathe.
“Jack’ll be back any minute, it’s fine—”
“Racer,” Albert squeezes Race’s hand with the little energy he still has. “Go. I’m okay. Besides, Buttons’ll keep me company, won’t you, Butts?”
“Only if you agree to never call me that again,” smiles Buttons.
Race opens his mouth again to protest but Albert shushes him. “I’m okay,” he repeats. “Go check in on the boys who ain’t.”
And, despite every nerve in his body begging him to stay, Race lets go of Albert’s hand. “I’ll be back in a bit,” he says. Albert nods.
Race surveys the room. Specs and Henry are doing all they can to keep the littles calm. Although he hides it well, Race can tell by the slight reddening of Specs’s ears that he’s worried about Romeo. Henry is trying to teach the boys how to roll a coin over their knuckles and as Ike musters a giggle of elation at his semi-successful attempt, Race swears to shower Henry with all the love and praise he deserves.
He slowly goes over to Splasher’s bunk, where the boy’s chest rises and falls with soft snores. Even in his sleep, Splasher’s face occasionally screws up with pain. The area around his bruised eye is darkened and puffy, though the blood has been carefully wiped away. Tommy Boy clutches his rosary, muttering a prayer. Race waits until he’s finished to approach him.
“You doing okay?” Race asks, tentatively placing a hand on Tommy Boy’s shoulder. He half expects to be pushed away like Henry was, but Tommy Boy just melts into the touch.
“I finally got him to sleep,” Tommy Boy sighs.
“That ain’t what I asked,” says Race. Tommy Boy deflates. He doesn’t cry – Tommy Boy never cries – but the fight in him drains.
“My father’s gonna kill me,” He repeats the same words he had said earlier that day, which feels like so long ago despite only being a few hours. The newsies had all cheered Tommy Boy when he threw down his newspapers. Race didn’t feel like cheering now.
“Stay here for the night,” Race says. He doesn’t know much about Tommy Boy’s home life, but after the day they’ve had, he isn’t about to send Tommy Boy somewhere he doesn’t feel safe.
“I can’t—”
“I’ll cover you.” It costs six cents a bed, twelve cents for the two of them. Race wonders if he can haggle Kloppman’s price does just for one night. Tommy Boy’s face clouds, likely embarrassed at the thought of owing somebody, even if that somebody is his friend. Race quickly changes tactics. “When Splasher wakes up, he’s gonna wonder where you are.”
Splasher takes that opportune moment to let out a pained whimper – sounding more like a kicked puppy than a person – as he tries to roll over in his sleep. Tommy Boy is by his side immediately, readjusting the blanket that fell from Splasher’s bony shoulders. The boy is uncomfortably skinny, they all are of course, but in this moment Race notices it in a way he hasn’t before. He figures that this must be how Jack looks at them: clocking each individual sign of malnourishment and maltreatment and figuring out how he can make their lives somewhat easier.
“He’s just a kid,” Tommy Boy whispers.
“So are you,” Race reminds him. So am I, he thinks. The words bubble up in his throat but he pushes them away. That isn’t what Jack would say right now, and if he wants to help get the boys through this, he needs to think like Jack. “Stay here tonight, yeah?”
Tommy Boy hesitates, watches as Splasher goes still again. He fiddles with the cross of his rosary. After a moment, Tommy Boy jerks his head ever so slightly forward. Race accepts this as the barest glimpse of a nod.
“Race!” Jojo rushes towards him, Henry and Mike on his heels. Mush and Ike stay huddled in the corner with Les; the coin they had been playing with lies discarded on the floor.
“What is it?” Race asks, alarm bells already ringing loudly in his ears. Jojo doesn’t respond, just pulls Race by and arm and practically dragging him to the staircase.
It hurts to breathe.
Romeo and Finch stand at the foot of the stairs. At the sight of Romeo, Specs bounds down the steps, enveloping the smaller boy in a tight hug. Finch repeatedly clenches and unclenches his fists, his eyes glassy and unfocused.
“I was worried sick,” says Specs, holding Romeo at arm’s length. “Where were you?”
“Hiding out in some alley on the Bowery,” Romeo replies. He watches Finch warily. “I couldn’t get him to move.”
Race approaches Finch slowly, reaching a hand out. Finch flinches away, curling in towards the nearest wall like he is trying to melt into it. Race has seen him get like this before – all flighty from fear – but never to this degree.
“Hey, Finchy,” Race says, trying to make himself seem as unthreatening as possible. Finch doesn’t reply, though Race doesn’t expect him to; he is well aware that words are the first thing to go when Finch starts to panic.
“What happened?” Henry asks cautiously.
Romeo takes a step away from Specs, ostensibly steeling his nerves. He juts out his quivering chin. “Snyder got Crutchie.”
Finch’s legs give out from under him, and he’s caught by Race and Henry before he can completely collapse to the floor. His breath quickens, turning to little more than jagged inhales.
It hurts to breathe.
“Get him upstairs,” Race says. He fears that if Finch continues to hyperventilate he’ll pass out. Henry and Race half guide, half carry Finch up the steps. It’s a slow process, and occasionally they have to stop when Finch finds himself unable to move again, but eventually they make it to the dormitory. Race and Henry silently agree that it’s neither safe nor smart to try and get Finch onto his top bunk, so they carefully deposit him on Specs’ bed. Specs, to his great credit, doesn’t complain; he seats himself beside Romeo.
Henry kneels at the foot of the bed, helping to untie and remove Finch’s shoes. Once he’s free, Finch pulls his knees close to his chest so his sits taking up as little space as possible. He doesn’t look anyone in the eye, but does grab onto Henry’s outstretched hand and squeezes it tightly. Henry doesn’t seem affected by it.
“I’m right here,” Henry murmurs. “I gotchu. You’s okay.”
Race watches as Henry continues to work on calming Finch, suddenly feeling particularly out of his element. He has done his best to pull Finch back from a panic before, but he’s always felt like he was no good at it. Henry has dealt with his own anxieties and seems like he knows how to handle it. Specs has that naturally soothing air about him that makes the younger and easily spooked boys come to him for aid. Even Albert is a surprisingly calming presence when he needs to be. Race considers himself too loud and too jittery to help anyone relax; he’s much more the person you go to when you want to be roused into action. However – and Race curses the world that this is the current fact – the one person who, about all others, Finch turns to when he is seized with panic is Crutchie.
Crutchie is gone.
It hurts to breathe.
It hurts to breathe. It hurts to breathe. It hurts to breathe.
It truly hits Race in that moment. Crutchie: his sweet, caring, little shit of a brother has been sent to the closest thing New York City has to hell itself, and Race hadn’t even realized. He had been too focused on making sure the littles scattered, too hyped up on adrenaline to realize that he’d been running too fast for anyone to keep up. He shouldn’t have been the first one back. He should’ve stayed behind.
“Where’s Jack?” Romeo asks Specs. Race pretends not to hear.
“You know Jack,” says Specs easily. “He comes and he goes.”
It’s a very nice way of saying that Specs neither knows where Jack is nor when he’ll turn up again. If he turns up at all—
No. Race has to keep that thought out of his head. Just like the sun rises in the morning and the ships come in to the harbor, Jack comes back for his boys. Race refuses to entertain the idea that Jack won’t return, even as the sky starts to darken and Kloppman warns of the coming curfew.
Race nabs a scrap piece of paper and pencil from Davey and a tin cup from the bathroom. He slinks through the lodging house, collecting the six cents required for room and board and writing down the names of the boys as they drop their coins into the cup. Henry covers Finch’s charge. Mike and Ike split the cost for a still sleeping Splasher. Jojo offers to pay half for Tommy Boy but Race – out of pride or a terrible need to be self-sacrificing – immediately shoots him down. Specs scrounges for the extra coins he keeps in his shoe to help pay for Mush, who digs in his empty pockets and tries not to cry.
“I got Albert’s too,” Specs says as the coins plink metallically into the cup.
Race looks over to Albert’s bed, expecting the redhead to be fast asleep. Albert smiles weakly, waving with his uninjured arm. Buttons softly chides him to rest.
“These next couple days are gonna suck,” Race sighs.
Specs nudges his shoulder. “We’ll figure it out. We always do.”
Race leaves Specs and his unrelenting optimism with the littles, taking the night’s rent down to Kloppman’s front desk. Davey and Les are already there, mumbling their goodbyes.
“Heading home?” Race asks.
“Folks were expecting us awhile ago,” Davey explains, his ears turning pink at the mention of his parents.
“I swung from a rope!” Les proudly exclaims.
Race smiles half-heartedly. “I saw. Looked fun.” He turns back to Davey. “Do something for me, will you Davey?”
Davey nods. “Anything.”
“Leave a window unlocked tonight, in case Jack comes by your place.” Race can only think of so many spots Jack may run to, and despite only knowing the Jacobs siblings for a few days, Race has a feeling that their apartment may be one of them. “He may not be ready to come back here yet, but he might want to see you.”
Davey seems confused by the request but he agrees all the same. “If he comes by, I’ll bring him back here as soon as I can.”
“If he does, just make sure he's okay.” Race pats Davey’s shoulder in thanks, ruffles Les’ hair, and watches as the brothers walk out of the lodging house.
Kloppman appears from behind his desk. “Has anyone checked you out yet, Racetrack?”
It hurts to breathe.
Race dumps the coins out onto the desk followed by the slip of paper. “That should cover everyone tonight. Anything that’s missing I’ll pay you in the morning.”
“Well that’s all fine, but—”
“I’m not late, am I?” Elmer comes bursting through the door, a large apple crate in his arms. His chest heaves like he’s been running a mile, but minus the scratch on his face, he appears unharmed.
“Where the hell have you been?” Race demands. “One more minute and Kloppy would’ve locked you out.”
That isn’t true and they both know it. On more than one occasion Kloppman has let in a kid past the curfew, especially if they’re a longtime resident like Race or Elmer. But Elmer has been gone for hours; he was one of two still unaccounted for. Race is understandably pissed.
“Church,” Elmer answers simply, setting down the apple crate. Inside are rolls of bandages and a couple bottles of pain medication, the expensive stuff that none of them can ever afford. “I convinced the Sisters to donate some things. And they’re gonna start a collection for us, help the youth of the city and all that.”
Elmer hands Kloppman his six cents for the night without another word. He pushes past Race and starts up the stairs, his footsteps uncharacteristically heavy. Race notices a string of prayer beads dangling out of his back pocket that he is certain were not there this morning.
“That was smart,” Race calls after Elmer.
Elmer shrugs. “Yeah well I’m not a complete idiot. Despite what you all seem to think.” He leaves before Race can respond. Bewildered, Race starts to follow him.
“Let him go,” Kloppman picks up the apple crate Elmer left behind and rifles through it.
“He went to church,” Race says dumbly. Elmer hasn’t been to church in years, not as long as Race has known him at least.
“And that’s probably why he’s so agitated. Let him go,” Kloppman repeats. “You never answered my question.”
It hurts to breathe.
“I’m fine.”
“Please don’t go improving the truth with me, Racetrack, not after all these years.” Kloppman gestures for Race to sit up on the desk counter. It’s something he hasn’t been permitted to do since he grew taller than Kloppman (though Race can’t pretend that he hasn’t done it once or twice since then just to be impertinent). “I don’t think I’ve seen you stop running around since you got back. You need to rest.”
Race lets his legs dangle limply over the side of the desk. “Jack ain’t back yet.”
“I know.”
“And Crutchie…”
“I know.”
“So I’m in charge,” Race concludes. “I gotta look out for them.”
“How very noble of you,” Kloppman says. He hands Race a glass of water, effectively pausing the conversation until he is satisfied by how much Race drinks from it.
Race chugs the entire glass in one go. The water room temperature and a little grimy from being in a pitcher all day, but still feels remarkably soothing going down. “I’m not trying to be noble,” he says once the glass is empty. “I’m trying to be—”
“Like Jack?” Kloppman finishes.
Race shrugs. “He takes care of us. If he ain’t around, it’s my job to.”
“As I said, noble,” Kloppman tuts. “You’re right. When you’re out there working, Jack and you and the other older boys have to take care of the little ones. And you do a good job of it. But when you’re under my roof and bleeding on my floors—”
“I’m not bleeding anymore!”
“—it’s my job to take care of you,” Kloppman gently takes the glass from Race. He pats Race’s knee; a calming almost paternal like gesture. “Right now, I take care of you. Let me do that.”
If he wasn’t so exhausted, Race probably would’ve started crying right then and there. He slumps, finally letting the tiredness get to him. He smiles tentatively at Kloppman.
“You’s good people, Kloppy,” Race says as he slides off the desk.
Kloppman shakes his head good-naturedly. “Don’t you forget it. Get some rest, Racetrack.”
Race nods good night, going upstairs to the dormitory. The lodging house is quiet again, save for the soft snores and occasional rustling of sheets as someone moves in their sleep. Despite having a separate bunk for the both of them, Mike and Ike share a bed; Ike’s foot is in Mike’s face and Mike has stolen most of the sheets. Tommy Boy is asleep in the chair where Race left him, still holding Splasher’s hand. There’s a blanket draped around his shoulders; coincidentally, the blanket from Jojo’s bed is missing. Elmer is sleeping on the floor beside Henry. There is always a bed empty for him, but Elmer sleeps on the floor when he’s at home so he sleeps on the floor when he’s here. He used to say it was because the mattresses at the lodging house are too soft. Mush has crawled into bed with Buttons, latching onto the older boy like a koala, though Buttons doesn’t seem to mind. Albert sleeps with his hair fanned out around him like some flaming red halo. Race lightly presses a kiss to his forehead.
The only person in the dormitory not yet asleep is Specs, who has Romeo’s head rested in his lap. He presses a finger to his lips to signal that Race better stay quiet before pointing to the fire escape, where Finch sits staring out into the New York skyline.
Race climbs through the window onto the fire escape, sitting down next to Finch. Finch barely acknowledges Race’s presence; he’s too engrossed in playing with the string of his slingshot. Race wonders if Finch still isn’t talking until—
“I heard him calling for me,” Finch says softly. “For me, for Jack, and Romeo. God, he sounded so scared.”
It hurts to breathe.
Race lets Finch rest his head on his shoulder. “There’s nothing you could’ve done.”
“I could’ve gone back. I should’ve gone back.”
“Then Snyder would’ve gotten you too and that ain’t helping anybody.”
Finch grips the slingshot tightly, as if he’s trying to push all of his fears and anxieties into it. “But I could’ve protected him in there,” he insists. “Now he’s all alone because I was too scared.”
“Crutchie’s stronger than we give him credit for, he don’t need us protecting him.” Race says matter of fact.
Finch groans. “I know that, but it’s different, okay? You wouldn’t get it.”
“How’s it different?”
“It’s just… different.”
Ah. Race pats Finch’s knee. “You and Crutch then?”
Finch doesn’t say anything for a long time. Race lets him sit in silence; he knows that this can be a hard thing to admit out loud, even to someone Finch considers a friend. “You won’t say nothing?” Finch asks finally.
Race nods. “It ain’t for me to tell.”
“It’s new,” Finch admits. “I don’t know what I’m doing half the time.”
“I still don’t have a clue what I’m doing and it ain’t new to me,” Race laughs. Finch cracks a smile; which Race considers a victory.
Finch’s smile erases though just as quickly as it appeared. “When Snyder showed up, I panicked, Racer. Romeo and I were just running and running and then… then I couldn’t get my legs to work. I think I freaked Romeo out.”
Race doesn’t want to make Finch feel more guilty than he already does. He takes a deep breath, inhaling the cool air.
It hurts to breathe.
“Did you know we was at the Refuge at the same time, Finchy? Your first stay was my third.”
Finch’s head perks up from Race’s shoulder. “I never saw you.”
“Yeah well, they wouldn’t’ve put us in the same block,” Race shrugs it off. “Point is, I get it. That fear you feel when you think you’s seen Snyder walking down the street. That anger and hurt at the world, that shame… I’ve been there.”
“You cover it well.”
“The smoking helps – nasty habit, don’t be like me—”
“Oh!” Suddenly remembering something, Finch reaches into his pocket. He retrieves Race’s lost cigar. “I found it lying on one of the papes we tore up.”
Race gratefully accepts the cigar, almost lighting it right then and there. “You’re incredible,” he says. Even unlit, the feeling of the cigar resting between his fingers is a welcomed comfort.
Finch pulls his knees to his chest again. “How do you deal with it? Besides smoking, I mean.”
Race shrugs with a wry chuckle. “Some days are worse than others. Sometimes I wanna scream or throw something or shut down completely, and it took me ages to learn that that was okay. And sometimes I just want to be left alone, and that’s okay too. But eventually, I realized that I can’t be alone all the time, not with this sorta thing. You gotta be with someone to talk about what’s going on in your head or someone to talk about stupid stuff to stop thinking about what’s in your head. So I go to Albert, or sometimes Jack… and Crutchie… just to get it all out.”
“And they don’t mind?”
Race shakes his head. “They’s got their shit to share too, so it’s even.” Race wraps his arms around Finch’s shoulders. “If you ever want to talk about things, you can come to me, Finchy. I can’t promise I can make everything better, but at least you’ll have someone listening."
Finch manages a small watery smile. He hugs Race around the center. “Thanks, Racer.”
They stay like that for a long while, two exhausted young brothers staring out at the world below them. The streets are mostly quiet as New York says good night. Though there aren’t many stars out – there never are in the city – Race looks up at the darkening sky. For the first time in hours, Race feels like he can breathe again.
“So… you and Albert then?”
“Oh shut up.”