Author's Note: Yayyy! Kitty's Adventures are finally up! I don't own newsies, but I do own the charecter Kitty and this story :) I know this part is just background stuff, but the newsies will start showing up in the next chapter!

It's been three months since the fire. Three months of living on the streets of Brooklyn with filth and the fellow homeless. I never would've know how many homeless there were until I was one.

I think I should explain. My name is Kitty, or it has been for three months now. I've decided my past identity died in the fire that killed my family. I had parents. They were a happy couple, never abusive, never drunk. If anything, they were almost classy. They loved me as much as a parent loves any child, but we weren't close. They loved my twelve year old sister, Charlotte, more. Anyone could see that. Maybe I was just too different for them. Boys are allowed to do anything they want, but when a girl decides she doesn't want to spend hours making doilies, it's the end of the world. The amounts of potholders and doilies that filled Charlotte's dresser drawers was ridiculous. I'm a girl-I wear dresses when I should and I conduct myself like a lady at proper times. I just don't like the activities that woman feel it's their duty to do.

That's why I'm still alive, and not buried with my parents' and sister's ashes. I was talking a walk that day, on the beach. Nothing crazy. I took walks often. I didn't have many friends. Girls sew and gossip in their spare time and boys tend to stick with their own gender. Charlotte was always with mother, slowly being brainwashed into a stereotypical woman, so I was always left alone.

After a day of walking with nothing but my thoughts, I returned to what had used to be my home. There was nothing left but ashes and parts of the house's old frame. The firemen were there, but obviously had been too late. The fire was supposed to have been accidental, like a fireplace or cooking incident, and there were no hints of arson. Nothing in the fire had been saved, including my family. I left the scene speechless with only the clothes on my back and my scattered thoughts.

For the past three months, I have wandered around, sleeping wherever I've wanted to and dwelling anywhere convenient. During the day, I was free to spend a whole day at the beach with no one to pester me, and at night, I could convince a bar owner to let me sleep under the counter for free. I was penniless, filthy, and friendless, but I was happy. I had no one on my back telling me what to say, wear, or think. The day after the fire was the day I decided I wasn't the eldest Patterson daughter anymore. I took up the name Charlotte used to call me, Kitty, and ditched my worn out skirt and blouse for more comfortable boy clothing I found on a clothes line. I made sure the family I took it from was wealthy and had plenty of other clothes. The white button up shirt and black pinstripe trousers I stole were most likely the oldest and most tattered of the clothes, probably used only for playing in. For a homeless girl with a brand new identity and nothing to her name, they were perfect.

Three months has greatly worn my outfit, but I never stole clothes again. I stuck with what I had, and stole only apples from trees and bread cooling on window sills. There wasn't much difference in the sins, but I felt less guilty stealing necessities instead of clothing I simply wanted.

The official start of my new life, however, came when I was told I would have to pay rent if I wanted to sleep in the bar anymore. That was an obvious impossibility, so I started brainstorming ideas for places to sleep. I finally figured that near the water would be perfect-The beach was safe for me during the day, how could the night be any different? So I made my way over to the Brooklyn docks, hoping that I had found a sleeping space I would be able to stay for a while.

The rude awakening I got the next morning told me that I definitely wouldn't be sleeping on the docks again.

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