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It all started with a simple cough.
It was early November, meaning most of the boys in the lodging house had started to come down with something, and Racetrack Higgins was no exception.
On Monday, he had started coughing, little tickles in his throat giving way to deep, heaving coughs that bent him over and made his throat raw.
On Tuesday, the exhaustion crept in. He could barely last through the morning issue, and would crash on his dirty mattress with his head throbbing before selling the evening edition instead of heading to Jacobi’s with the other boys.
By Wednesday, his head wouldn’t stop pounding, his brain had decided to take its leave, and his body felt like a rock.
Jack talked to him, trying to convince him to stay home, but Race was nothing if not determined, and damn, he wasn’t missing a week’s pay for something as menial as this. So, he brought up the last time Jack had gotten sick, (Early December- he was bedridden at the Jacob’s with David at his bedside) and watched his cheeks color as he slowly crept away.
On Thursday, he thought he would be okay to go to Brooklyn. He had neglected his usual selling spot all week, knowing Spot would have a little (pun intended) something to say about his current condition. However, Jack kept appearing looking murderous when he caught Race out selling instead of in the lodging house resting, causing Race to hide out until the older boy had gone, which unsurprisingly wasn’t so good for his sales.
At Sheepshead, he could hawk uninterrupted, and probably get a pretty penny off of the young women going for the races. He still looked like shit, but he had managed to keep some of his food down this morning, so he thought he would be alright. He wasn’t.
After a good half-hour of selling, (punctuated by bursts of chesty coughs, bending him over as excess saliva pooled in his throat) he hadn’t made much. The ladies all kept their distance, probably scared of catching whatever he had, so he hadn’t made more than a couple of pennies, and he kept having to dodge off to empty his guts onto the grass.
It happened when the race was almost over- the excessive cheering gave Race a pounding headache, and the lights were blurring together in a way that made his head spin. He felt stuffed with cotton, like he was being weighed down, and his clothes didn’t fit right, too heavy and too hot, and he alternated between being sweaty and clammy to being chilled to the bone, and it was all so much.
He opened his mouth to hawk another headline (some drivel about gold found in Pennsylvania), but found his legs giving way, and his vision going black.
When he came to, he felt warm. He was still clammy, but there was something warm around him. There was some noise, as well, a babble. It hurt his head. Maybe shouting? He should tell them to shut up, he thought. All of a sudden, his stomach whirled, and he bent over, fingers meeting soft grass as he threw up, stomach contracting. He sobbed, as he felt rough hands warming his back as they rubbed soft circles into the worn fabric of his shirt.
Wait. Hands? He opened his eyes, world still spinning slightly around him, to see one especially concerned looking Spot Conlon.
‘Spot?’ He mumbled, voice raspy.
‘Racer.’ The shorter boy murmured, voice gravelly, pressing a short kiss to the top of Race’s head. It felt nice; his lips were cooling.
‘What.. what happened?’
‘You fainted, Race. I had to move you, they were all crowding you.’
‘Why…’ He croaked, fog still crowding his brain.
‘Because I like you, stupid. Youse is basically Brooklyn, showing your ugly mug round here every day. Know how worried I was when youse stopped showing up? Had to ask that muck Kelly, I’s was that desperate.’
He smiled, and it was crooked, and warm, and comforting.
‘But.. why?’
The shorter boy held him tighter, whispering into his ear.
‘I take care of my own, Higgins. Youse is Brooklyn, and my stupid idiot. I gots to take care of you, too. Man, how glad am I that for once Kelly wouldn’t shut his stupid mouth. Now, youse is going back to the Brooklyn lodging house with me, and Hotshot or someone else’ll get you something.’
‘Spot. Spotty.’ Race rasped.
‘What?’
‘You’re my best friend, Spotty.’ He smiled, feeling loose. ‘Dunno what I would do without ya.’
‘You ain’t nothing without me, ‘Hattan.’
With that, the Brooklyn boy gently lifted Race off of the floor, bunching his arms around his hips as he carried Race in a bridal position, all the while Race’s eyes were starting to close, his exhaustion overwhelming him again.
‘Youse is a good person, Spotty.’ Racer said, drifting into sleep.
‘Not compared to you.’ He barely registered the shorter boy’s words, vision going black.