February 6th, 1931.

          I remember stepping out of the apartment, my nightmare still clinging to my mind.  Down ‘round those steps I went, determined, determined to work to make me family live for the rest of me lifetime.  I could find me own food, but right now me mummy and brother needed my help.  But what I didn’t know, and needed the most, was time.

I didn’t think about how, though.  I’d just woken up at the beginning of the day. I’d left to return home so many hours later, during the witchin’ hours of Hell’s Kitchen.  The witchin’ hours of darkness when gangs, roustabouts, and thieves patrol the streets without limit, without warning, and without razzers.

I had gotten’ a job.  Got to clean shoes for a bargained price of 20 cents for a pair of shoes.  That included tip, which meant almost nil money for me after giving the biggest share to Stevens, the stand owner and creepiest man you’d ever meet.

That day, I took a dark alley shortcut to head back home.  Don’t know why, but fewer miles of a walk back home versus more is quite appealing.  The consequences weren’t.

            Frank turned right at an intersection next to his house, the roaring of the wind and the hubbub of early traffic whistling past him.  He stayed to the far right of the sidewalk, his eyes strained due to the poor lighting provided by street lamps.  It was very early in the morning, he guessed; he was fortunate to have left at this time just after the extreme crime ended and the busyness of New York began.  His feet sank into snow at least a foot deep, but he ignored the freezing, numb feeling of cold and pressed on.  There was hardly anyone driving or walking apart from the scattered homeless.  Frank was terrified to glance left or right, as snores emanated from dark, snowy alleys.  The intermittent disruptions of the otherwise eerie silence caused him to flinch, and the pondering silence made it appear as though it determined Frank’s fate.