Chapter Text
JACK KELLY
Randall’s Island, NY
October 1897
Jack savored the precious fleeting minutes of mealtimes in the canteen. The food wasn’t always warm and the portions were scant but it was edible. And by the time Jack had completed both his daily lessons and back-breaking labor, his stomach was growling with hunger. So hungry that even the most foul-looking slop served on his plate was appetizing.
He watched Alexei pick at his food and wished he could eat his share. Atlas and Romi said he was atoning. Mahoney said he was hunger striking. Doc said loss of appetite was a symptom of opium withdrawal. But Shakespeare said it could be guilt, which threw Jack for an even stranger loop. They were all guilty of something, or else they wouldn't be in the Refuge. No one else was skipping meals out of guilt.
While the others around him ate, Alexei poked and picked at the vegetable stew with his spoon. Finally, he met Jack's eyes, and the younger boy quickly looked down. Alexei pushed his plate away, averting his gaze, too.
When Mr. Volz came around to collect everyone's trays on a cart, Alexei handed his over full and untouched without looking at the guard. Volz stared from Alexei’s meal tray to the boy in question and refused to take it away until Alexei took a bite of the stew. He would make Alexei sit there until night time if necessary. Shakily, Alexei picked up his spoon and managed to swallow a small bite with all other eyes on him.
Volz waited a moment and then collected the tray.
***
"I don’t like Alexei," Jack had admitted that evening in the schoolroom. He was shivering, wrapped in his oversized uniform jacket. “And I’m not all too sure why.”
The boys had been left to study their times tables as they wished, with old Mr. Dellinger—the near-deaf mathematics teacher—asleep again at his front desk.
Charles Marquette was sharpening his pencils in preparation to sketch the mainland visible in the distance. He sat beside Jack under the window, his face as pure and clear as pebble eyeglasses. “Perhaps it’s prejudice,” he remarked.
“What, because he’s Russian?”
Marquette nodded, rolling up his white sleeves.
“No, not because of that,” Jack decided. “He’s a bully. And he wastes food.”
“Well, perhaps he has his reasons.” Marquette said. “The Refuge brings out the ugliest in all of us.”
"Damn this place," Jack whispered. "I've been here long enough.”
Marquette licked the lead of the pencil and brought it to the paper. “It’s been…how long for you? Almost four days?”
“I’m going mad already. I can feel it. I’m forgetting what life outside was like. I’ll end up as loony as No Name, or as sick as Calico, or as mean as Alexei—”
“Did you know there are now twenty-three horse car lines that carry passengers to almost every nook and corner of the city?” Grim interrupted gently, tracing faint lines on his chalk board, smearing the white dust with his fingers. “And that the fare on any of the lines is but five cents, even if you ride ten miles.”
“What?” Jack scrunched his dark eyebrows.
Grim didn’t look at him. He just kept tracing little designs over his slate. “And how could you forget the long walk from the Battery up Broadway to First Street? What street is that near again, Jack?”
Jack paused, sitting back in his chair to think about it. “That’s near Houston Street.”
Grim nodded. “Right. And on to Two Hundred and Twenty-Second Street, the highest-numbered street in New York. Then where do you go from there?”
“Yonkers,” Jack replied confidently this time.
“Can you name the principal markets in the city?”
Jack shrugged, puzzled by the exercise but happy to show off his knowledge. “Um…there’s Catharine, Centre, Clinton, Essex, Farmers’, Fulton—of course—Fulton Fish, I mean, Jefferson, Manhattan…oh, Tomkins, Union, did I say Washington? Well, West Washington anyway.”
“Jack, you remember a lot more than you think,” Grim said, tracing a face in the dust: two dots and a little smile. “Take heart.”
“Right, boys,” Mr. Dellinger announced, clapping his hands together, dulling the multitude of conversations that buzzed throughout the cozy classroom. “Now for some practice. I will start with a simple problem, as always, and it will be your task to give it your best try.”
Jack watched the boys file back to their proper seats, muttering and complaining along the way, boots and chairs scuffling against the wood panels. Marquette continued to sketch the still life subjects out the window, completely unbothered, as Mr. Dellinger wrote on the front board in fine penmanship.
“A builder sold a house to an agent at a profit of twenty percent,” Mr. Dellinger began, chalk echoing off the walls as he wrote out the number. Jack heard other little chalk pieces around him copying down the rest. “Let’s say the agent sold it to a third party at a gain of fifteen percent, who in turn sold it at a loss of eight percent and lost two-thousand dollars. Now, boys, I want you to find the cost of the house and for what it was sold each time.”
Jack hung over his slate, staring dumbfounded at the numbers on the board as he heard the boys around him working, chalk squeaking against slates, tapping on desks.
“Yes, Mr. Krause? Have you the answer?” Mr. Dellinger asked with a hopeful smile, calling on Grim.
Grim stood and looked down at his slate, making sure to speak loudly for the old man. “The cost of the house was 18,115 dollars and ninety-four cents. Builders sold it for 21,739 dollars and thirteen cents. Agent sold it for twenty-five thousand dollars. Finally sold for twenty-three thousand dollars.”
Mr. Dellinger clapped. “Yes, very good, Mr. Krause. Very good, indeed. Do you all see how he got the answer?”
Jack’s eyes widened as he glanced at his own blank slate. He felt miles behind. The boys were already erasing their work.
“Alright, let’s move on. How about a house costing 15,725 dollars and rents for 1,500 dollars. Let’s say the insurance is 4/5 percent and the repairs 6/10 percent each year. Boys, what rate of interest does it pay?”
“What the hell…” Jack whispered to himself, watching Grim and Tide hunch over their work and sketch out numbers quicker than a typewriter. He looked over at Marquette who continued to elegantly trace the ripples of river water and the outline of a large ferry.
“Mr. McGurk, please,” Mr. Dellinger called on him, taking off his spectacles to clean them against his jacket.
Tide stood up after comparing his work against Grim’s. “The house pays an interest at the rate of eight percent?”
“It does indeed,” Mr. Dellinger said with a satisfied nod, putting his spectacles back on his nose. “Well, boys, since you’re all so brilliant, how about we make a game of it? Each of you will have a chance to answer a question before the ring of the bell. And if you each get it right, I shall reward you with our next class outdoors.”
The room was suddenly ablaze with agreement and eagerness—an emotional shift so abrupt and charged with good feelings that Jack couldn’t help but smile and nod along.
“Wonderful.” Mr. Dellinger rubbed his hands together and closed his eyes, pointing his finger around the room like a madman, emitting chuckles from a few boys. He stopped at random and opened his eyes. “Ah, Mr. Mahoney. You’re the lucky first pick. I’ll make it easy for you, my boy.”
Valentino and Shakespeare nudged him and smirked as Mahoney slumped in his seat. “Yeah, but your definition of easy ain’t the same as mine, Mr. Dellinger,” Mahoney complained, picking up his piece of chalk anyway.
“Pay close attention now.” Mr. Dellinger said, folding his arms. “A broker buys stock when it is twenty percent below par and sells it when it is sixteen percent below par. Mr. Mahoney, what is the rate of the gain?”
Mahoney rolled his eyes. “Alright, give me a second.”
Jack watched him scribble out a few calculations on his slate, with Valentino and Shakespeare watching over his shoulder.
“f*ck…um,” Mahoney mumbled, going unheard by the old math teacher. He finally stood, giving a “here goes” shrug. “The rate of gain is five percent?”
“It is absolutely five percent, Mr. Mahoney. Good for you, lad,” Mr. Dellinger said with a wink, leaving Mahoney to fall back into his seat with a relieved sigh, much to the amusem*nt of his neighbors.
“Nice work, Mahoney,” Valentino mocked, mussing his friend’s hair.
“Mr. Valentino,” the teacher continued, pointing at him.
“Please, no—”
“Gunpowder is composed of thirty-three parts, by weight. Did you know that?” Mr. Dellinger asked, pacing the room to stand before the boy.
“I didn’t, sir.”
“Yes, of saltpeter, 7 of charcoal, and 5 of sulfur.” Mr. Dellinger paused when he got to Cohen’s desk and turned. “Mr. Valentino, find the percentage composition of gunpowder.”
“You’re not even giving me one of the values—”
“Two minutes, Mr. Valentino.”
The boy cursed and grabbed his slate, holding it up against his knee and furiously scribbling. “The percentage composition of gunpowder would be…” He tucked his tongue between his front teeth as he worked, erasing bits with his thumb. “Okay, I know fifteen and 5/9 percent is charcoal.”
“Yes…and?”
“And eleven and 1/9 percent is sulfur.”
“And the saltpeter?”
Valentino stood up after Shakespeare had checked his work and gave an encouraging nudge. “And the saltpeter is seventy-three and 1/3 percent.”
“Very good, Mr. Valentino, and thank you Mr. Lindy for double-checking his arithmetic,” Mr. Dellinger said with a little laugh. “You boys are kind to help one another.” He paced to the front of the room again and closed his eyes, letting his arm roam about in the air. He stopped at Mooney.
“Mr. Mooney, my boy,” Mr. Dellinger said with a pleased smile. “I’ve got one you’ll like.”
Mooney let out an audible groan.
“A ship, Mr. Mooney. A ship sailed due south and due east on alternate days at the same rate each day.”
“Impressive…”
“At the end of six days it was found to be…let’s say, 203.646 miles southeast from the place of starting. Tell me, what was the daily rate of sailing?”
“Um—”
“Not ‘um.’ I’m sorry,” Mr. Dellinger said, getting more laughs from the boys. “Try it again.”
Mooney looked down at his chicken-scratch calculations and then flinched as Doc leaned over and whispered something in his ear. “Why are you rounding like that?” Mooney mumbled, wiping his ear.
“Because that’s how you’re supposed to round,” Doc insisted.
“Fine,” Mooney said, erasing something on his slate and writing another number in its place. He stood, turning the slate for Mr. Dellinger to see. “The ship’s daily rate of sailing would be about 47.99 miles.”
Mr. Dellinger drummed his hands on his desk in a celebratory beat. “Mr. Mooney, you are correct, boy. And Mr. Maltese with a life-saving assist. Lovely work.” He pointed to Calico, who winced as all eyes turned to him. “But can Mr. Kramer do it even quicker?”
“Probably not, I think,” Calico rasped and then coughed to clear his throat. “But I will try.”
“Good man.” Mr. Dellinger sat at the edge of his desk and folded his arms again, narrowing his eyes. “Say you own a lovely orchard, Mr. Kramer. An orchard containing six acres twelve square rods and is three times as long as it is wide.”
“Lovely,” Jack heard Mahoney mock him, getting more laughs from the others.
“Mr. Kramer,” Mr. Dellinger went on, “I require from you the length and breadth. You may draw it out on your slate, if you must.”
Quickly producing a crude sketch of the orchard in question, Calico wrote the numbers along the sides. Jack leaned forward to watch him work, trying his best to keep up on his own slate. Calico stood before Jack had even completed the perimeter of the orchard.
He cleared his throat again and said hoarsely, “The orchard is—”
“Speak up if you please, Mr. Kramer,” Mr. Dellinger called, cupping a hand behind his ear and grinning.
Calico blushed and cleared his throat harder this time. “The orchard is fifty-four feet long and eighteen feet wide.”
“A remarkable boy,” Mr. Dellinger praised, rushing over to pat Calico on the shoulder. “Now go and fetch yourself some water at once.”
Calico nodded gratefully and thanked him, crossing the room to pour a glass from the pitcher of water at the teacher’s desk. Dellinger resumed his blind game of selection and when he landed on his next victim, Jack could hear the other boys murmur and hide their laughter.
“Mr. Tracey, Mr. Tracey,” the old man sang, running like a mad person to the brooding brute’s desk near the back. “How about a go?”
Muggs raised his green eyes from his desk, having dozed atop his slate, head in his hands. No Name, too, was asleep at the desk beside him.
Muggs raked his dark hair out of his face and gave Dellinger a fake smile back, shrugging his bony shoulders. “No.”
“Humor me, boy. Unless you find all of this too difficult for you.”
Muggs bit his lip and fell against the back of his seat, looking at Dellinger expectantly.
The old man thought a moment, looking off as he structured a problem together. Finally, he turned and walked up to the front. “A man who owned twenty-thousand dollars of stock, par value, sold for 140 and invested the proceeds in other stock at 160. Do you follow me, Mr. Tracey?”
He turned over his shoulder. Jack, too, stole a peak at Muggs, who simply gave one nod at Dellinger.
“The first stock,” Dellinger went on, “paid an annual dividend of five percent and the second of six ½ percent.”
“Okay…” Muggs said, tilting back in his chair, balancing himself against one heel to the floor.
“Well, what was the change in his income?” Dellinger asked, giving Muggs the same expectant look back.
Jack watched Muggs chew on his lip, then watched his tongue wash over his front teeth, then watched as the older boy’s eyes darted up toward the ceiling. “One…One-hundred and thirty-seven dollars.” Muggs tilted the chair forward, letting all four legs hit the ground. “And fifty cents.”
“Mr. Tracey, the mathematics marvel,” Dellinger said with a clap. He moved excitedly to the other side of the room, and Jack stole another glance at the now wide-eyed Muggs who looked to be slumping back in his seat. “Mr. Sullivan, I’ve got one for you.”
Jack’s eyes whipped forward again to find Dellinger standing in front of his desk. “What?”
“You’re the last one, my boy. And come next week, should you answer correctly, we will have our class outdoors, in the yard.”
Jack shook his head, looking at Grim who gave an encouraging nudge.
“Come on, Jack,” Grim whispered. “You can do it, kid.”
“But—”
“Mr. Sullivan,” the teacher interrupted, pacing to the back of the room. Jack felt his palms begin to sweat. “Please give me the number of square feet in one face of a cubical block whose contents are…” He paused, pivoting on his heel and looking over at Marquette’s sketch of the mainland. “That’s quite beautiful, Mr. Marquette. It’s a pity we don’t have art classes here.”
Marquette froze his frantic movements with the pencil, staring up at the teacher. “Thank you, sir.”
“As I was saying, the contents of the cubical block are 405,244 cubic feet.”
Jack looked to Grim for help, hovering his chalk atop his slate. “Wait, what’s the—”
“Go!” Dellinger exclaimed, looking down at his pocket watch. “Two minutes.”
“Jesus,” Jack muttered, blindly scrambling. He closed his eyes, trying first to calculate the side length of the cube.
“There you go, Jack,” Grim whispered, pointing to the equation Jack had written out hurriedly. “Now compute the cube root. That’s about seventy-four. He doesn’t need an exact answer, just get close. Do the area of one face of the cube.”
“About…” Jack stood shakily, holding his slate in front of his reddening face. “About 5,476? Something close to that?”
Dellinger was quiet, looking out at the other boys who followed along with the calculations on their own slates. Jack craned his neck, seeing Tide’s solution as about 5,541.
“Or…um…” Jack fidgeted, beginning to sit back down. “I don’t—”
“You’re within range, my boy!” Dellinger announced proudly, drumming his hands on the desk again. “Rounding errors, those pesky precision limitations…don’t let it get you down. I am happy, however, with your efforts. You came very, very close to it, and for that, I will count it as a victory for you, and for the class. Class outdoors it is!”
The room erupted in applause and whistles, waking up the asleep No Name who clapped along in confusion. A chant of “class outdoors!” began to take form as Dellinger laughed and erased the front chalk board.
The noise suddenly came to a halt as soon as the door swung open, and Dellinger turned to see Whalen and Ramsey in the doorway. Ramsey cleared his throat, giving Dellinger an amused look, tilting his head and gesturing to the class.
“Quite the party in here, isn’t it?” Ramsey asked, making the boys sit up straight and properly in their desks.
Jack felt the energy in the room change, turning suddenly stifling and thick with threat.
"There will be silence in the classroom, and you will show Mr. Dellinger more respect than this." Ramsey’s ferret-like eyes moved through the classroom. "You’re still paying for that senseless stunt you pulled last night. Acts like that won't be tolerated while I'm here."
“Mr. Dellinger,” Whalen said, turning to the old man, who now looked far less jolly than he had a moment ago. “If you wouldn’t mind giving Mr. Ramsey and I the classroom to address the boys. Class is over, after all. And I believe the warden was looking for you. In his office.”
Dellinger straightened his waistcoat and wiped his brow with a handkerchief. “But I’ve got ten minutes left—”
“Mustn’t keep the warden waiting,” Ramsey said with a false smile.
Jack watched the old math teacher give a reluctant nod before packing up his briefcase. Dellinger walked to the door, his coat draped over his arm, and turned to face the class. “Until next week, boys. Keep practicing your sums.”
The old man lingered a moment, staring at the boys and then at the two guards. He hesitated and finally pushed open the door. Jack flinched when Ramsey closed the classroom door behind him and felt his hands begin to clam-up with sweat again. How Jack wished Dellinger had stayed.
Catching Valentino whispering to Shakespeare, Ramsey slammed his baton on Valentino’s desk and told him to shut his mouth.
Jack sat up in his chair, his blood running as cold as the Harlem River. He hunched over his slate, trying to obscure his face. But Whalen and Ramsey strolled right by Jack, as if not noticing him. Instead, they stopped at Alexei’s desk, where the boy sat rather coolly.
"How old are you, Morozov?" Ramsey asked in a mocking insinuation. “This is an arithmetic class, ain’t it? Can you add up your own birthdays?”
He stared down at Alexei, waiting for an answer. The Russian emigrant’s blue eyes were focused on a crack in the desk. He took a deep breath. The other boys were turned around in their seats, staring at the exchange.
"Eighteen," Alexei said. He finally met Ramsey’s gaze and sat up, squaring his shoulders.
"Eighteen-years-old," Ramsey repeated, his voice lowering. He continued glaring at Alexei with a scornful frown. "And are there other boys in this room who are eighteen?"
"Yes."
"Are there boys in here who are nineteen?"
"I—"
"Are there boys in here who are seventeen, sixteen?"
"Yeah…"
"And do they refuse to eat at mealtimes? Do they demand opium at all hours?"
Alexei got out of his chair and stood, resting a hand against the desk as he rolled his eyes.
"Because I can tell you that boys your age do not do such selfish, immature things," Ramsey spat. "Or do you think otherwise?"
Alexei looked around and then offered a half-shrug, appearing as if were restraining himself from a more biting response. "No," he answered.
"Then why do you act like a child who won’t get his way?" Ramsey asked, raising an eyebrow.
"I’m not." Alexei pursed his lips, holding his chalk in his fist and releasing it.
Jack could tell he was bracing himself for whatever lecture Ramsey had planned. He figured it was because Alexei was so exhausted from the opium withdrawal, he just didn't care anymore. Maybe that's what Ramsey was counting on.
Mahoney told Jack about the chalkboard of listings in Whalen’s office, on which the other guards were engaged in, placing bets on how many times each boy would break in a week. And for those who hadn't yet done so, how long it would be until they did. It reminded Jack of the racehorses in the corral that Racetrack Higgins bet on at Sheepshead Bay. And now Jack had effectively become one of the racehorses.
"That’s what you say," Ramsey nodded, looking as though he found that amusing. "Do you need to be put with the younger boys? Is that it?"
"No," Alexei said under his breath.
Ramsey tilted his head. "But I thought only children pouted and threw tantrums?"
Alexei didn’t reply.
"Are children allowed in this ward?"
"No," Alexei repeated without meeting Ramsey’s imposing stare.
"No, they're not," Ramsey affirmed, and he gestured to Alexei. "And yet there is a child here among us. Because only children behave the way you do. Am I wrong?"
Alexei looked away, resigning to silence.
Ramsey remained staring at him, unsatisfied with the lack of answer. "I said, am I wrong?" He leaned over and barked the question into Alexei’s ear, enunciating the words.
Alexei closed his eyes and reopened them, as if trying to string a coherent thought together, finally shoving Ramsey away with a single hand to his chest. "Get off me," he replied.
“Finally using your words, are you? Like a man,” Ramsey said, seeming satisfied.
“f*ck you,” Alexei muttered.
None of the boys spoke. They all blended into their work, hoping to go unnoticed.
Jack looked to Grim who met his gaze and shook his head as if to say,don't try anything stupid, not now.
"Did you just give Mr. Ramsey lip?” Whalen asked, stepping forward. “You don’t speak unless you’re spoken to." Whalen turned to the rest of the boys. "That goes for the lot of you! There is no talking back!"
Jack winced as Alexei mumbled something back to Whalen in Russian, clearly an insult, and received a slap for it.
“English is spoken here, and I will not tell you again," Ramsey added and then turned pointedly to Charles Marquette—the quiet Frenchman whom Jack had noticed was still sketching on his drawing paper. “I’ve already made it clear to you, have I not?”
Marquette gave a singular nod and then looked elsewhere, his expression reddening and promising visible anger if he didn't redirect his focus.
Whalen grabbed Marquette’s paper with the half-drawn landscape of the river and mainland and held it up. “You fancy yourself an artist, do you, boy?” Whalen asked, spitting on the sketch before ripping it down the middle. “Not even paying attention to your lessons. Mr. Dellinger won’t be happy to hear about that.”
Marquette averted his eyes, nervously twirling his drawing pencils between his fingers.
Ramsey continued focusing in on Alexei. “Pathetic, dope-addicted fiend like you ought to be across the way in the charity hospital for the insane.”
Alexei grit his teeth. “Opium isn’t just something you quit—"
"You’re a weak-minded brat to have smoked it in the first place!" Whalen grabbed the thick strap he carried out of his coat pocket and bent it, giving it a few loud snaps against Alexei’s desk. "You're a stupid, stupid, stupid boy!" He shouted, throwing the strap onto Alexei as the boy shielded his face with his arms. "Stupid! Stupid!"
Alexei struggled to speak as he was hit, trying to block the blows as best he could. He wound up on the falling over his desk and then onto the floor under the relentless beating with the strap.
Jack could tell that Whalen was making up for all the times Alexei had attacked the guards in his withdrawal rage. This wasn't a punishment. This was revenge.
"Has he had enough?" Ramsey yelled to the wide-eyed ward 11 inmates at their desks. "Has he?"
Whalen stopped hitting Alexei with the strap and grabbed the boy by his blond hair as Alexei cursed hoarsely.
Jack said nothing, and neither did anyone else, not even Grim. It was a trap, a rhetorical question. Jack knew as well as the others that speaking up would mean joining Alexei in his punishment.
Whalen looked to be in a kind of frenzy, like he wasn't above maiming anyone who crossed him, and Jack believed he'd do it, too.
With no response, Ramsey nodded, and Whalen threw Alexei to the cold floor again and kicked him in the ribs, the stomach, the legs, anywhere he could.
"You see that?" Ramsey said to the beaten boy on the floor. "None of this lot is speaking. They're not coming to help you because they know you're a miscreant. What have you got to say to that?” He glared at Alexei’s beaten body. “Dammit, say something!”
Jack saw Tide and No Name look away.
Valentino touched the medal around his neck, uttering a prayer.
"What every hop-head needs is a sound thrashing!" Whalen shouted, landing blow after blow onto Alexei. "I'll beat the addiction out of you yet! You’re gonna wish you’d never heard of opium by the time I’m through! I'll cure ya, Morozov! How ya like that?"
"Mr. Ramsey," A voice managed to say from the back row behind Jack, oddly calm and controlled. "Mr. Ramsey, sir—"
"Quiet!" Ramsey yelled, not bothering to see who'd said his name. "Or I'll give you the same!"
"Mr. Ramsey." It was Muggs, his eyes flicking from Whalen's violent movements to Alexei’s struggling to stand up, all the while Ramsey stood by. "He's had enough—"
"Shut your trap, Tracey!" Whalen seethed. “It’s too late for that!” He stopped his assault on Alexei’s body with his boots when he realized the boy was unconscious. “Bring him ‘round,” he said to Ramsey, who grabbed the pitcher of water off Dellinger’s desk and doused the cold water over Alexei.
The boy woke up with a start, gasping for air and shivering from the ice bath he’d just been given.
Whalen, again, lifted him by his wet hair, forcing Alexei to his knees, and grabbed Alexei's face in his hands. His mouth and nose were bleeding, and he grunted as Whalen squeezed his jawbone tightly.
"Mark my words, Morozov," Ramsey spat, as Whalen caught his breath. "I have dealt with worse than you. I know all the little tricks, all the acts. I won't fall for it. You just want your fix. You're a hop fiend, and that's all you'll ever be. Once you get out of here, you'll be back to the dens until you die alone with nothing except that pipe. I’ve no pity for boys who choose such a life."
He let go of Alexei, letting him fall back to the floor. Stepping over his beaten body, Whalen turned back to the looks of absolute horror that awaited him.
The bell in the hallway sounded, signaling the end of lessons. No one moved from their seats.
“You boys get to where you need to be,” Ramsey said, breathless, wiping sweat from his forehead. “Or we’ll take you there ourselves.”
There was silence as the two guards left the classroom, swinging their nightsticks menacingly, and leaving the door open behind them.
Jack opened his eyes, a lump in his throat. Atlas crossed himself. Mooney had slid down in his chair, as if hiding.
After a pause, as if to collect their thoughts, Muggs got up to help Alexei back to his chair, but the boy refused and got up on his own. Cohen gave Alexei a towel from the chalkboard and cleaned the blood, while Doc examined his nose, though the Russian boy waved him away.
Alexei cursed in his native tongue as his nose snapped back with a crunch. He tipped his head back, holding a cloth to soak up the blood.
“Let’s move it!” Whalen said, poking his head back into the classroom and banging on the door with the nightstick. “Class is over!”
Jack heard the scraping of boots and chairs on wooden paneled floorboards again. The mood was much different this time. He felt himself stand shakily to his feet, gathering up his books and following Grim into line, filing out of the math room with the rest of ward 11.
“I’ve got a math problem for you, Mr. Krause,” Jack whispered to Grim on their way out, eyeing Whalen and Ramsey from a distance as they lingered in the hall, glaring at the boys leaving the classroom. He turned back to see Alexei, bloodied and soaked from the water, being half-supported by Muggs and Cohen as he walked, looking somehow less cruel than Jack had known earlier. “Calculate the odds of us making it out of here alive.”
