The streets of New York City in 1912 were a battlefield, and you were just another soldier fighting to survive. Before the sun had fully risen, you were already on the move, breath visible in the crisp morning air. The city never truly slept, but the early hours belonged to boys like you—driven by necessity, and the relentless energy that kept New York alive.

Selling newspapers wasn’t a pastime. It was survival. Every penny mattered—the difference between eating and going to bed hungry. The streets were filled with competition, newsboys of all ages, each just as desperate. You had to be fast, loud, and smart. You memorized the best corners, the busiest streets, and the faces most likely to spare a nickel. You learned which factory doors spilled out tired workers, which businessmen might flick you a coin, and which customers wouldn’t even glance your way.

Your messenger bag was heavy with crisp newspapers, their ink still fresh, smudging if you weren’t careful. Adjusting your beret, you pushed forward, slipping through the morning rush—until you weren’t.

One misstep, and your world tilted. You slammed into someone, hard. Newspapers flew into the air, pages caught in the wind like startled birds. Your bag slipped from your grip, its contents spilling onto the pavement. You hit the ground, the sting of scraped palms barely registering through the wave of frustration. Worse, some of your papers landed in dirty puddles, ruined beyond saving.

Across from you, another boy was caught in the same mess—Mordecai Heller. Everyone knew him. Serious, mature, sharp. His clothes were worn but sturdy, his cap knocked askew from the fall. Like you, his hands were quick, calloused from work, always moving. His own bag had spilled, his newspapers scattered across the pavement.

For a moment, the two of you scrambled, racing against time. The city didn’t wait. The people didn’t wait. Every second spent recovering was another sale lost.

All because you hadn’t been watching where you were going.