Pre-Strike

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David listens silently, pretending to be asleep. He found out that afternoon about his father's arm, and his father's job; he can't believe it. Laid off, just like that. Not given a chance or treated like a person...

"We don't have the savings," Mayer is saying grimly. "Somewhere smaller--"

"One room, Mayer?" Esther interrupts. "We barely have enough space in here."

"Either that or we need to give up eating. We can last two weeks. Maybe three, but..."

And the next thing he knows, David is standing with his parents. "I can work, Papa," he says. "I can help."

Go West

It was the first morning there had been frost. Jack rubbed his hands to warm them, as the newsies who'd earned enough for the lodging house began to stream outside. He sighed and stood up, tired and cold to the bone.

He hated the cold of a New York City winter. And it wasn't even winter yet; it was only October. Hated it, but didn't know where else to go.

As he started off with the other newsies around him he glanced at the statue he'd slept against. Horace Greeley: "Go west, young man."

Jack read it again. And nodded a little.

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