It was that time of year again. The mild November had been decieving and the brisk cold of December swept through New York without mercy, yanking on young men's coat tails and numbing their ears and noses. The streets were a little slower, as those who did not have to be outside prefered to stay in their homes, safe from the wind and the imminent snow. The sky was eerily gray and waiting (for what?) to burst, waiting (for what?) to unleash the pesky yet beautiful flakes of soft, sweet snow upon the hard, barren earth.

Central Park was a wasteland. All the ponds were frozen over, the ducks had migrated, the squirrels and birds were hiding, and the trees were bare. It was prepared for the snow which undoubtedly would come... which undoubtedly should come. It seemed almost as if all of New York was holding its breath in anticipation of the white dust that had covered every street and building every winter for as long as anyone could remember. The snow was late this year. "Nice, ain't it... Fall's holdin' on fer jist a little longer," was often heard, but the lateness left an unsettled feeling in everyone's gut. As if something was not yet complete, as if the impending new year could not be ushered in until the sky broke down and snowed.

A sudden gust of wind caught under Skittery's hat and sent it sailing across the street. For a moment he watched the stray current fling his favorite grey hat around in the air, pounding it against a brick building with careless abandon.

But he quickly snapped into action, hurtling after the hat, fingers outstretched, thoughts intent on capturing the lost posession. After chasing it nearly a block, the wind gave up the game and conceded the prize. He found it resting atop a garbage can. He reached out to take it, thought twice, and decided to leave it there. He could always find a new favorite hat, one that hadn't been dunked in foul New York trash. He ran his hand through his now uncapped mop of brown hair. He needed a haircut. He made a mental note to ask Kloppman to break out the rusty old scissors when he got home, but the note slipped into the unused recesses of his mind as soon as his thoughts turned elsewhere. To the grumbling in his stomach.

He ducked into the nearest resteraunt, a greasy coffee shop. The door slammed shut behind him and a blast of hot air made him cough. He slid into a booth and rested his elbows on the wooden table, spreading his meager earnings for the day before him, concentrating on counting the coins. The copper ones were pennies, they were one cent each. Those were easy. He paid for his papes with the pennies and most people paid him for papes with pennies. The silver ones were few and more difficult. The small ones counted for ten pennies, and then there were larger ones that counted for five pennies and twenty-five pennies, although the twenty-five cent pieces were rare. Today Skittery had mostly copper pennies. It seemed the colder the weather got the worst business was. People were in too much of a hurry to get where they were going to stop to purchase a pape. He slowly, painfully, counted out eleven pennies. There was a large silver coin, too, a five cent piece, but Skittery wasn't entirely sure how to add that to his eleven pennies. He tried to do what Kloppman told him, to picture five pennies infront of him instead of one nickel. Then in his mind he tried to count the five pennies added to his eleven. Twelve, thirteen, fourteen... he had lost track. Was that all five of the pennies that made up the nickel? His head hurt.

The waiter arrived. Skittery pushed over seven of the pennies for a cup of coffee and a ham sandwitch. The waiter left and he shoved the remaining four pennies and the mysterious nickel back into the pocket of his well-worn pants. Not half a second passed when the door to the resteraunt slammed open again and a few of Skittery's friends entered, laughing boisterously. Skittery forced a smile as his friends headed over to his booth, but on the inside he groaned. He liked being alone, and he liked the time he spent alone, and when he was alone his mind worked harder and sometimes really interesting thoughts presented themselves and he enjoyed that. He was proud of these thoughts but he couldn't share them with his friends-- they wouldn't understand. It wasn't their fault, he couldn't even begin to put his more profound thoughts into words. So he liked to be alone, but being a newsie wasn't condusive to that.

Jack Kelly and Racetrack slid in the booth across from him and Mush threw himself into the space next to Skittery. Skittery slid over as far as possible, wedging himself into the corner, repulsed by the heaviness of Mush's body leaning against him. When the waiter returned with Skittery's coffee Jack ordered a plate of french fries for him to split with Racetrack, who was flat broke again, and Mush coughed up four pennies for an extra large slice of apple pie. With vanilla ice cream.

"Ice cream? Ya nuts? It must be negative thoyty out dere!" Jack laughed in his deep, booming voice. A thought flashed through Skittery's mind... he wished Jack would sing. Jack had a really nice voice, and Skittery loved to listen to people sing. He was in the mood for a good slow song, maybe a Christmas carol... it was nearly Christmas time.

"Damn weather... keepin' people off da streets, keepin' money outta me pockets. I'm completely busted again." Racetrack was complaining, as usual.

"Maybe if ya didn't spend all yer money on da horses ya wouldn't be so busted," Mush offered in his sweetly sensible way. He was rewarded with the back of Race's hand. Skittery sunk even further into the corner. Physical violence, even when it was all in fun, made him nauseous.

"Are you awright, Skit?" Jack asked, a shadow of concern momentarily sweeping across his lively hazel eyes. Skittery straightened up a little, noticing for the first time his untouched coffee on the table before him. He grasped it in his hands, concentrating on keeping them from shaking, and gulped down half of the already cold liquid before answering Jack.

"Fine, fine, I'm fine," he finally said, avoiding Jack's gaze by staring intently at his coffee cup. There was a speck of something black on the lip... it hadn't been washed properly. Skittery shuddered and dropped the cup to the table, causing the remaining coffee to slosh out on his hands. He quickly wiped the table with his napkin and thrust his hands into his lap, unable to control the shaking any more. He looked up at his friends who were busy helping the waiter who had just arrived with their food. A ham sandwitch on sponge-like white bread was thrown infront of Skittery. He picked at the bread, inspecting it for flaws. The bread was fine. The one limp piece of lettuce was fine. The slice of tomato was a little green, but fine. He sniffed the ham. It smelled a little... funny. He spoke on impulse.

"Heya, Mush. Sniff dis, will ya?" He thrust the plate holding the now open- faced sandwitch infront of his friend's nose. Mush gave him a strange look, but did as he was told.

"Smells like ham."

"Ya sure? Ya didn't smell nothin' funny?"

"Smells fine ta me, Skittery. Jist eat the damn thing or I'll eat if for ya!" Skittery picked up the sandwitch, held it an inch from his mouth, opened wide, and changed his mind. He dropped it back on the plate and slid it over to Mush, a disgusted look on his face. Mush waited for a minute, nearly said something, decided not to, and wolfed the sandwitch down in three bites. Skittery sighed. Jack looked up at him.

"Wanna bite of our potatoes?" He asked, nudging the plate over and allowing his fork to rest in the center of the mound of fluffy white potatoes. Skittery's stomach growled loudly, begging him to eat. He picked up his fork and got ready to dig in when his eyes rested on Jack's used fork, in the middle of the potatoes. Jack's spit, his germs, infesting the food. As he paused, Racetrack reached over and took a giant bite. Skittery watched as Race fitted the entire fork into his mouth, pulled it out slowly, and reached over for another bite. Skittery closed his eyes and tried not to scream. He put his fork down and shook his head.

"I'm really not very hungry. I'm goin' back out on da streets... got more papes ta sell..." He motioned for Mush to let him out of the booth. Mush cast a glance at Jack, but obliged by moving out of the way. Skittery stumbled out and pushed his way back into the cold.

The air bit into him and took his mind off his hunger for a moment. He wrapped his arms around his skinny body and shivered, delighting in the frigid atmosphere. He had read in one of the newspapers recently that germs couldn't survive in low temperatures. The thought of all the little germs infesting the gutters being anhilated in masses thrilled him. A soft smile played across his lips. Then, without warning, the hunger was back. It gnawed at him. He half wished he had just eaten the sandwitch, or at least some of Jack's mashed potatoes. He always ended up wishing he had gone ahead and eaten something, but when something was infront of his face, it was awfully hard to put it in his mouth.

Skittery passed a dress shop, and by accident caught sight of his reflection in the carefully cleaned windows. He stopped, turned, and looked at himself. He was so thin. He had always been thin-- a gangly, lanky boy who grew quickly at an early age. People had always looked at his long legs and large hands and prominent nose and laughed and said that the rest of him would grow into his limbs. He never fully did, though, and he was left at seventeen looking somewhat akward and misproportionate. But recently his akwardness and lankiness had mutated into full blown skinniness. His skin seemed loose and there were dark circles around his eyes. His muscles had wasted a little, too. Particularly in his arms, where the skin was abnormally tight and his veins were large and dark. When he tightened his fist each blood vessel popped up, making a map that ran from his wrists to his shoulders. He hadn't meant to loose so much weight... it had just sort of happened. Well how was he supposed to maintain a healthy weight when all the food within his grasp was tainted? It started with food he stole from the outdoor markets and stands. Bugs crawled across that food, laying their eggs, leaving their disease-ridden excrament.... Then he started to notice problems with the food at his favorite resteraunts. The dishes weren't clean, or the waiters stuck their fingers in the food, or the meat wasn't properly cooked... and the more Skittery read in the papers about health and sickness the less he could force himself to eat. It wasn't just food, though. Everything in the great city was dirty. He had just never noticed it before. There was trash in the streets and grime encrusted on benches. Even his friends were filthy.

Most of them didn't bathe but once or twice a week. Skittery had started getting up earlier than the rest of the boys at the lodging house so he could use the water before anyone else. That way he was assured clean, fresh water. He bathed every morning, and again every night. And he scrubbed and scrubbed. But it never was enough, some of the slime from the city always remained, a thin film that coated his entire body from head to foot, reminding him of his mortality. It was depressing as hell.

Usually the hunger pains went away after awhile. When they didn't, like this time, Skittery hawked his papes as he hiked across town. Once he crossed the invisible but understood line that seperated Manhatten from Harlem he rolled his remaining papes up and tucked them into the waistband of his pants. The last thing he needed was trouble with the Harlem newsies, who weren't known for their kindness or intelligence. He quickly and quietly made his way down a dark alley and rang the bell by a partially hidden door. After what seemed like forever a voice called, "Whadya want?" Skittery knew exactly how to answer.

"Poyple, prancin' elephants. Dat's all." He felt like a fool saying it, but it was the code to get through the door. And he needed what was on the other side. He heard a key turning in the lock and the deadbolt being drawn back. With a creak and a sigh the heavy wooden door swung open and he pushed through a curtain into what looked like a pharmacy. He took a seat on one of the two benches by the barred up window and waited, like always. It wasn't too long before a shriveled old man with long, greasy grey hair hobbled out from a door behind the counter. He looked at Skittery and stroked his thinning beard, a crooked smile flitting across his face.

"How goes it boy?" He asked, his voice loud and shrill. Skittery could barely make out his expression in the darkness of the room.

"Fine, fine, I'm fine," he answered, the blood pounding in his ears. He wanted to get it over with and get out.

"Da usual?" The man asked, already knowing the answer. Infact, the bag was already prepared and tied. It was a little short, as always, but poor street trash like Skittery didn't know the difference. In fact, this time about half of it wasn't pure at all. The man hadn't had a delivery that week, but he wasn't about to turn away a paying customer. Instead he mixed what he had left from the week before with some odds and ends... chances were the kid would never notice. And if he did... well Skittery didn't have any other place to buy his stuff, so he'd be back regardless.

"Yeah..." Skittery trailed off, his thoughts focused on digging the coins from the depths of his pockets. He produced the mysterious nickel along with the remaining four pennies and held them in the palm of his hand, spreading his fingers wide and shoving his hand in the direction of the man. It didn't look like enough... for a moment he was truely worried. It could't be enough... the man would never sell him his bag for that little. If only he hadn't paid that seven cents for the wasted lunch!

To Skittery's surprise the man snatched the money from his palm eagerly, as if he hadn't expected so much. He tossed the bag over and Skittery caught it, staring at the white powder contained as if in a trance. It was the only thing that would take away the hunger. The man disappeared back where he came from and it was Skittery's cue to leave. He did just that, slipping back into Manhatten the same way he had come, stopping only briefly to jab his trusty, clean hyperdermic needle into his skin, sending what he thought was pure, perfect heroin into his bloodstream. To calm him down. To ease his hunger. To make him well.

It was not pure heroin. Whatever was in it, a little of this and a little of that, maybe some cigarette ashes, maybe some plaster, it was deadly. Of course the heroin alone, in its purest state, could have killed Skittery as quickly as this lethal mixture had. That is irrelevant. What matters is that by the time Skittery reached the lodging house he couldn't see straight, and there was a pain in his stomach worse than anything hunger could do. The pain was so bad that Skittery could barely think. He just wanted to get inside... Kloppman would help him. He fell to the cold ground, unable to walk as his legs refused to respond to the stimulations his brain was supposed to be sending to his muscle receptors. He pulled himself with his arms up to the door of the lodging house, wishing the walk to Harlem hadn't taken so long, wishing it wasn't so late and so dark and so very very cold. He raised one hand to claw at the door but found, mid-knock, that he no longer wanted to go inside. He would be perfectly happy to stay outside, right where he was... forever. It was no longer all that cold.

Skittery smiled a little. Germs didn't seem so bad anymore.

No one really wondered where Skittery had gotten off to. Newsies sometimes didn't come home at night, it wasn't a rarity. It wasn't until a cry erupted from beneath the bunk room window that anyone suspected the least bit that something was wrong. Jack excused himself from the poker game being played on his bed to wrench open the window and stick his head out. As leader of the Manhatten newsies it was his job to check these things out. What he saw was a younger newsie, knealing on the hard ground by a body which was stretched out infront of the door to the lodging house. The body looked stiff, and Jack couldn't tell who it was, or if he knew the body at all. He watched in silent horror as Kloppman ran out of the lodging house and pushed the boy away, falling to his knees beside the body. It wasn't until Kloppman let out a long, slow moan that Jack knew it was one of his, and he was dead.

"Downstairs, now!" Jack called, his face void of emotion.

The rest of the newsies stopped what they were doing and only hesitated for a brief moment. The tone in Jack's voice made it clear that this was not time to doubt him. They followed behind quickly as Jack flew down the stairs. They poured out into the street behind Jack, and drew back in terror as they saw the body. No one cried. Not a sound escaped as the group of maybe 25 boys stood silently. Kloppman remained on his knees by Skittery's lifeless body. The half full bag of powder lay by his side, spilling onto the ground. Kloppman scooped it up and clutched it between his shaking fingers.

"Drugs!" He yelled, his voice wavering. "Drugs!"

Then more silence. The boys stood over their fallen comrade, another victim of the hard life on the streets of New York City. Something had been wrong mentally. Some mixture of bad chemicals had fallen on his brain... or maybe it was too much pressure. Whatever it was had pushed Skittery too far, and his friends now knew that. They wished they could have seen it. They wished they had paid more attention when Skittery wasn't eating. They wished they could have stopped it before it had come to this. But they hadn't. So they stood, silent, in the cold air of the strangest winter in New York City's history. And snow began to fall.

THE END