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The tiny amount of warmth from his lit cigar, thanks to Ten Pin sneaking him a lighter, wasn’t enough to stop shivers running down Race’s spine.
The sheets were cold and thin, and the broken window wouldn’t close properly. He’d given his vest and shirt to a younger newsie who couldn’t have been more than eight years old, leaving him in only his thin undershirt. The kid slept pressed beside another boy in the bunk across from Race, and he glanced over, frowning. The kid was still shivering. He'd considered not giving it over, but in the end he couldn't be responsible for some kid freezing to death. His undershirt just wasn't cutting it. There wasn't enough room, it was cold, his stomach was rumbling, and fuck, his bruises hurt like hell.
It had been worth it, he reminded himself. The bulls had gotten Crutchie, and if he hadn't interfered, Crutchie would probably be in his place. It'd be easier for him to escape, he thought, without having to drag that crutch around. But tonight, his eyelids felt heavy and he wanted to get one sleep in before trying to make his way out. Problem is, the pain in his stomach of having not eaten since the day before (what striking newsie could afford breakfast?), the bruises and cuts spread across his body, and his pounding headache from his concussion kept him lying in bed on the verge of consciousness.
If Spot had joined the strike he wouldn't be here, he thought bitterly. They had needed Brooklyn. Spot had told Jack some shit about proving they wouldn't pull out- couldn't Spot trust Manhattan? If not because he trusted Jack, because he trusted Race?
Race put out his cigarette and slowly lay on his side, ignoring the ten different places that hurt as he moved. Even all of that hurt a lot less than the strong betrayal and hurt he felt now. If Brooklyn had joined, then they would've had Queens. There would've been thousands of newsies striking, and maybe they could've won. But no. Instead, Race remembered every newsie sporting bruises. Romeo with a black eye. Albert had a gash on his shoulder. Crutchie could barely walk when Finch, who had a bloody nose, had helped Race pull him from the cops. And here Race sat, in the refuge and alone.
He guessed those nights alone with Spot had meant nothing. Those nights where they'd talked quietly all night at the docks, or the nights with quiet kisses. The nights where they'd slip off where no one could see them and Race would head home hiding a bruise under his collar. Now, his collar couldn't hide the colourful assortment of swollen reds and purples up his neck. What Race had assumed was unspoken was apparently nothing to Spot.
Fuck Brooklyn, Race decided, pulling the thin blanket further up. Fuck Brooklyn, and fuck Spot Conlon. Manhattan didn't need any of them, and Racetrack Higgins certainly didn't either.