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Hell is a Sober Crawl	By : Glitter_Ink Category: M through R > Newsies Views: 499 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Newsies. Otherwise, names, characters, business, events and incidents are the products of my imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Chapter List
- 9
- 10
HOUSE OF REFUGE, 1897 - WEEK 4
Jack itched for laudanum again. The supplement Doc recommended just wasn't enough. He'd do anything to get the old stuff. Nothing the other boys said would change his mind. He was months out from release, from leaving the Refuge for good. He knew he could make it through if he had a taste. He was desperate.
On the streets, getting his fix was not an issue. Jack guarded his dignity, but he wasn't above bargaining, trading, and stealing for laudanum. In the Refuge, he sunk to new lows. Starving himself, working extra shifts in the steel mill, scrubbing the floors, doing laundry. When he was a newsie, he could play the innocent beggar when he needed to: pitiful bedroom eyes – shed a tear once and a while – with a beaten-down slouch and trembling hands. Such an act didn't work in the Refuge – that was everyone's tactic.
Crying wouldn't get you anything beneficial – Jack knew as much.
Calico's tubercular coughs and feverish hallucinations continued, unchecked by the staff. He only seemed to get worse. None of the boys knew how to make it better. Even Doc was at a loss.
Adopting a practice from the former, fanatical warden, Snyder ordered the boys be confined to their beds at night until morning. And that meant Mr. Whalen and a few other guards would tie wrists to bed frames, disallowing much movement and little comfort. Therefore, preventing any further riots in the middle of the night. It was a reinstatement of an old Refuge practice, and some of the boys who'd been in longest greeted the practice with dread and considerable fear.
At ten o'clock at night without fail, Jack and the others were herded into the dormitory by Mr. Whalen for another restless and uncomfortable sleep.
The day after Sophie's little visit, Commissioner Roosevelt was scheduled to give the place a brief inspection. It was a commercial tour of sorts, something to show the papers, and ultimately the public, that he was interested in cleaning up New York's undesirables.
What's more, a medical examination for the inmates was coordinated by Roosevelt and his team. Those kinds of procedures were supposed to be routine but had been neglected in the past decade. Funds had been misappropriated. As of late, Snyder was under pressure from the city to reform and clean the Refuge. When it got out there hadn't been a proper medical examination for the inmates in years, Snyder was forced to get the job done or he'd be out of work.
Roosevelt brought along Dr. Fuller to ensure the procedure ran smoothly. A Massachusetts native, Dr. Lysander T. Fuller was a progressive, astute graduate of La Sorbonne, and a leading physician in New York.
"And how many children do you have under your care, Warden Snyder?" Roosevelt asked, following the warden into the large dining hall. The children stood when Snyder walked in, their heads bowed.
"The number of children ranges, but at this moment, about 200," Snyder replied, greeting Mr. Whalen at the front of the canteen.
Roosevelt gazed around the room, seeing battered faces looking upon meager dinners. The meal consisted of watery beef stew and a stale piece of bread.
None of the children spoke, not even a whisper to one another. It was if they were resigned to silence, terrified of what would happen if they did speak.
"Let us begin," Warden Snyder said, and he led them in their meal prayer. The children mumbled through it. Roosevelt watched Snyder stroll along the tables, as if counting. He took his walking stick and tapped on the floor twice. At that, the children sat and waited. Snyder took his time. Another tap-tap of the cane, and they dove into their food.
Roosevelt and Warden Snyder, on the other hand, sat with the rest of the staff. They were given a large dinner of English split pea soup, olives, boiled chicken-halibut with egg sauce, small filets with béarnaise, ribs of beef, spinach, and potato salad. For dessert, cold corn starch pudding with currant jelly.
They dined in a separate, fancier room with a window to see the inmates. The children did not speak to one another, Roosevelt noticed. He saw one boy refused to eat. Instead, he gave his food to another frail inmate. Another boy appeared to be asleep at the table.
A while later, Jack and the other boys from Ward 11 sat in their underclothes on a long wooden bench against the wall of the schoolroom. It wasn't used for that much anymore. They stared out into space, feeling exposed and anxious about what was to come. Roosevelt left the task up to Dr. Fuller, having seen enough, and left the property sometime after not so much as a tour.
They were given pieces of blank paper and pencils by Dr. Fuller, on which they were meant to print their full names, ages, medical history, any injuries or illnesses they had experienced in the last year.
As Jack thought about what to write, he looked over at Grim's paper and saw nothing had been written. Grim met his gaze and stared at the pencil gripped in his left hand, shrugging. Reviewing the empty page, he mumbled with a resolved half-chuckle, "Wouldn't do me much good."
"Why not?" Jack asked, though he suspected the answer.
"I can't read or write," Grim admitted.
Jack nodded, looking at his own neat handwriting. His friends at the lodging house could read. Grammar was something else, but Kloppman had worked with them in the evenings, making sure they practiced spelling and punctuation.
But not all the boys in Ward 11 were newsies. They didn't have people like Kloppman to help them. Jack had to remember that.
"I could teach you," Jack offered.
Grim shook his head but gave a small smile. "Thanks, kid. But I get along well enough without it."
"Here." Jack took Grim's paper. "How about you tell me something, and I'll write it."
Grim gratefully accepted.
Mr. Whalen stayed during the duration of the exams to make sure no wild accusations were made against him by any of the inmates. Dr. Fuller was hesitant to let him in the room but knew there was little he could do while in the institution. It was a miracle he could conduct such assessments in the first place. The doctor asked Whalen, at least, to refrain from talking and to be respectful.
Snyder, meanwhile, was asked to supply records. He did so, but not in the way Dr. Fuller would call ethical.
Whalen made derogatory comments during the assessment. And Snyder gave no regard to the idea of private information.
"Aaron Cohen," Snyder began as Crazy handed Dr. Fuller his paper. Dr. Fuller looked in his mouth and checked his vision and hearing. "He's violent. Disturbed, this one," the warden continued.
There were upsetting remarks made at Crazy's expense. His handsome Semitic features, particularly his strong nose, was a target of mockery for Snyder.
Jack could see the rage flashing in Crazy's eyes, and he knew it was taking everything Crazy had not to snap Snyder's neck.
"James Mahoney." Whalen shoved Cards along as the boy initially refused to move. Jack could tell he was scared. These boys hadn't ever received medical attention.
"Before he was shipped to us, he was on the streets, gambling, brawling, thieving," Snyder said as he leaned closer to Dr. Fuller, as if to speak candidly, yet he kept his voice at the same level. "Alcoholic, just like his father."
Jack recalled Cards, and a few others including No Name, begging for alcohol on many occasions. Jack supposed they needed a drink as much as he needed laudanum.
Wait a second. Jack froze. Was Snyder going to disclose all their vices? Just like that? There was no way Snyder would admit he helped feed those vices, would he?
"Michael Mooney," Snyder announced, giving the boy a distrustful glare. "His brother was a troubled soul, and this boy no doubt takes after him."
Another exam complete.
"Demetrio. Demetrio!" Snyder snapped the boy out of his stupor, as usual. No Name straightened, his nervous disposition heightening to panic as he approached the doctor.
"Do you know his surname?" Dr. Fuller asked, looking over the papers.
Snyder shook his head. "His mother didn't provide one at the orphanage. No one has come to claim him since."
No Name looked as though he were far away, eyes reddened and glazed over.
"He hears voices, or he claims to. Up here," Snyder said, gesturing to his own forehead. "Rest assured, we keep a close eye on him."
Jack exchanged a glance with Lion, who sat on the other side of him. This was the first Jack had heard of this. No Name heard voices in his head? Whose voices? What did they say?
"That true?" Jack whispered.
Grim exhaled, not giving a straight answer right away. He whispered back, even quieter, "A year ago, No Name had this awful fit, something we hadn't seen before. Doc called it a hallucination. Anyway, Whalen warned No Name to behave. Snyder jabbed No Name with chloral to settle him down but gave him a bit too much."
Jack listened, watching Dr. Fuller try to get a checked-out No Name to open his mouth wider.
"The dosage might've killed him," Grim continued. "Doc was livid. He said it made No Name worse, and he insisted No Name be taken to Bellevue. So, Snyder beat him for a week and took away his meals."
"Doc?" Jack guessed.
"No Name," Grim replied. "Cruel, right?"
Jack mused. To punish the victim – that was evil.
Snyder grabbed No Name's left arm, presenting it to the doctor, and did the same with the right arm. "He's slit his wrists twice now." As Snyder continued, No Name didn't seem to be paying attention. Instead, he peered over his shoulder, eyes darting around. He met Jack's concerned gaze and offered a soft smile in return, as if unaware of his surroundings, his right arm still in Snyder's painful grip.
Dr. Fuller's eyes flashed regret. "Was a doctor called on either occasion?"
"It was nothing a few bandages couldn't fix," Snyder said, a bit taken aback by Dr. Fuller's reaction. "Sending for one wasn't necessary. We like to handle our own mishaps, doctor. I have good faith in the capabilities of my staff to act."
Dr. Fuller kept his thoughts to himself and proceeded with the exam.
"Lorenzo Valentino! We don't have all day," Snyder called to Lion, who gave Jack and Grim a 'save me' glare before getting up. Snyder took Lion's paper from him and gave it to the doctor. "Nicotine fiend, alcoholic, and a nymphomaniac, I'm afraid. I've been told there are several treatments if I am not mistaken."
Dr. Fuller squinted in confusion. Not everyone had heard Snyder's comments, but Jack had, and he wasn't sure he'd heard Snyder correctly. "I'm sorry, nymphomaniac?" The doctor repeated, a bit incredulous. "And what have you based that diagnosis off of, Warden Snyder?"
"The boy's a degenerate," Snyder continued, without much elaboration. "Mark my words."
Grim leaned over to Jack and whispered, "Snyder caught Lion with Mrs. Anderson once," he explained. "A few months ago, before you got here. Count your blessings, kid."
"Mrs. Anderson?" Jack repeated.
"She used to be the dormitory matron. Whalen took her place."
"Got it," Jack frowned, crinkling his eyebrows together. "What were they doing?"
Grim raised his eyebrows in response. "Fucking," he replied quietly, letting out a deep exhale.
Jack couldn't imagine taking the risk of having sex in the Refuge. "Oh."
Grim raked a hand through his hair, giving Jack an honest look. "She, uh... She made her way around the whole dormitory."
"So, did you...?"
Grim shrugged, averting his gaze. "Any relief is better than none, I guess. It felt good, but it didn't feel good." He paused, as if looking for the right words. "Know what I mean?"
"No, not really," Jack whispered, searching Grim's face for clues and coming up empty. It was clear Grim didn't want to spell anything out, and Jack didn't want to pry, but he remained puzzled by the story. There was something about Grim's expression Jack couldn't place. Shame? Guilt?
Jack wasn't sure he wanted Grim to continue, and in turn, Grim looked as though he didn't want to either. "Where did Snyder catch them?" Jack asked, his curiosity getting the better of him.
"In Lion's bed," Grim whispered. He wasn't smiling anymore. "Like I said, she made her way around the dormitory."
Jack stared back in astonishment. "In his bed? That's a bold decision, even for Lion," he admitted aloud.
Grim pursed his lips, shaking his head, trying to convey his message in no uncertain terms. "No, kid," Grim sighed, lowering his voice. "It wasn't his decision. It wasn't any of our decisions."
Jack felt his stomach drop. Oh.
Grim saw Jack's look of confusion turn to realization. "Crazy tried to stop it the first time it happened to him. Christmas Eve. Woke us up in the middle of the night. All we saw was her on top of him. He was still screaming at her when a guard came in. Who do you think the guard believed?"
Jack looked down the line at Crazy, who was talking with Muggs and Alexei.
"That is, until Snyder saw with his own eyes what she was up to," Grim said with a sardonic laugh. "And even though she was reassigned, he still blamed Lion for the incident. Said he seduced her or something, I don't know."
Jack thought back to what Grim had said earlier, that any relief was better than none. Jack wondered if Grim meant that or if it was something he said to ease his own mind. "I'm sorry," Jack offered, not sure what to say. He could tell Grim was trying to keep it light.
Grim's weak smile returned. "Yeah, well..." he trailed off, shaking his head. "Better than a beating, I guess."
Lion was sent back, and he rolled his eyes at Grim who gave a knowing look back at him. "Asking about my parents' medical history," Lion muttered to both Grim and Jack. "I don't speak to my father. I don't even remember my mother."
Grim patted his shoulder in understanding, and Jack had to pretend he hadn't learned what Grim had told him.
"Eli Markowitz," Snyder called to River, and the boy made his way over. Jack didn't know a lot about him. He kept to himself, but Jack noticed he had a tough time falling asleep at night. Then again, who didn't?
"He used to bang his head against the dormitory door when he first came here," Lion whispered to Jack. This came as a shock. Jack wouldn't have guessed that.
"Alexei Morozov," Snyder continued, putting out his cigarette and taking Alexei's paper from him. "What the hell is this gibberish?" Snyder asked, scanning over the Russian words. "I suppose opium destroyed your brain. Or were you just born stupid?"
Alexei muttered something to him in Russian as Dr. Fuller commenced the assessment.
Lion smirked. "Sometimes, if Alexei is angry at Snyder, he'll refuse to speak English," he whispered.
"We should all try that," Jack joked.
Lion laughed. "Can you imagine? Snyder would lose his mind. Not the smartest idea, but it would be funny."
"Andrew Lindy!" Snyder sounded as though he were getting impatient. Shakespeare strolled over with composure, squaring his shoulders, refusing to look at the warden.
"Speaking of smart," Lion whispered. He nudged Jack. "Did you know his father was a professor at Oxford?"
River leaned over. "I thought it was Princeton."
"No, it was Oxford, his father's from England," Lion said. "Real fancy-like."
"How the hell did he end up in here?" Jack asked.
Lion stretched. "How did any of us end up in here?"
"Logan McGurk." Snyder was glaring in their direction, and Tide, who sat on the other side of Grim, exhaled before standing.
"Extreme melancholia. His father was an alcoholic, I'm told. He hanged himself in their tenement, and the boy found him before he was sent here." Snyder announced to the doctor. "I suppose such unbecoming behavior is hereditary. Logan was brought here after he jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge. It's a wonder he survived."
Jack's jaw dropped at Snyder's flippancy.
Tide looked like he'd been punched in the stomach. Grim watched his best friend wilt and muttered an inaudible, "Oh fuck, here we go."
Eyes tilting toward the ceiling for a few seconds, Tide lowered them and bit his lip, blinking, at a loss. What could he possibly say after that?
Dr. Fuller looked from Tide to Snyder. "If I have questions, Warden, rest assured, I will ask them," he said. "To be frank, sir, it is your comments I find unbecoming."
Snyder sputtered for a moment, but Dr. Fuller was focused on Tide, steadying the boy with a hand on his shoulder.
"Did you know?" Jack whispered to Grim.
Grim pursed his lips, staying silent. But Jack sensed he had known.
Tide wasn't a bubbly guy, but he didn't leave Jack believing he was more melancholic than ordinary, an extreme melancholic at that.
Dr. Fuller finished with Tide, and Zefiro Petronelli – or Z, as he was called – took his place. Snyder managed to refrain from revealing much about Z, though he did volunteer he'd come from an orphanage in Brooklyn, and his records were lost in a fire.
Tide was quiet as he came back to his place on the bench, exchanging a few words with Grim and burying his head in his hands. Jack couldn't think of anything to say, so he kept his mouth shut.
Charles Marquette was next. His English was worse than Alexei's, but he managed well enough. Mr. Whalen piped up and made a disparaging remark about Marquette's French mother, whose professional services were well-known by both he and Warden Snyder.
"That ain't right," Lion muttered. Jack could see Marquette wasn't following all that Mr. Whalen said, but he understood enough to seem mortified.
Whalen's insinuation that Marquette's mother had a venereal disease, and that Marquette could possibly have it, was the last straw for Dr. Fuller. He took off his spectacles and faced Mr. Whalen with a look of composed irritation. "It would be best if you left the room, Mr. Whalen," he said, "since it seems you cannot help but add to the absolute circus that is this examination."
Whalen looked at Snyder, and at Dr. Fuller, and back to Snyder.
Snyder knew better than to argue, and Whalen stormed out, his anger boiling over.
Jack closed his eyes. Whalen would surely take that anger out on them.
Jack wasn't certain if Marquette had understood the insult. Words had been lost in translation. It was for the best.
William Westwood – Rails – was revealed to be half-Syrian, half-American. Jack realized out of all the boys in his dormitory, Rails was the one he knew the least about. He was friendlier than River, but a mystery. He wore his mask well. Rails was in the Refuge for attempted murder of his stepfather. He'd tried to poison him with cyanide. That last revelation came as a shock to Jack.
Atlas Giannotti was no different. Giuliano - Atlas - was as arrogant as ever, answering Snyder's questions with sarcasm, knowing he couldn't be punished in front of Dr. Fuller.
"Idiota," Lion whispered, rubbing his eyes. "Doesn't he realize Whalen will beat him later?"
"Why is he doing that?" Jack asked.
Lion shook his head. "Because he's an idiot."
Aghast concern was evident on Dr. Fuller's face when he examined Calico – real name, Hans Kramer. "This boy looks like he's dying," the doctor hissed, glaring at Snyder, waiting for him to scrounge a pathetic explanation. Jack turned to Calico, whose gaunt face haunted Jack's mind as he thought about the night he could've died. The German boy looked like a ghost, a sudden fit of coughs shaking his thin body.
Snyder looked caught. "He refuses to get out of bed, what can I do?"
Dr. Fuller listened to his breathing through a stethoscope, his eyebrows furrowing as he drew his own conclusions. "Tuberculosis," he said, putting the stethoscope back around his neck, and shaking his head in disbelief. "Good God, man," he spat at Snyder. "How long has he been sick? Are you aware he could've infected the entire dormitory? The Refuge? It's a miracle the rest don't have it."
Snyder said nothing, shifting from foot to foot.
"He'll have to come back to Bellevue with me," Dr. Fuller said, feeling Calico's throat and checking his eyes.
"I'm afraid I can't let you take him anywhere," Snyder replied. "You don't have any courts' permission to do so. This boy is under my care, and I say where he can and cannot be sent."
Before Dr. Fuller could respond, a voice from the bench called out, "He's been sick for about three weeks. Night sweats, fever. He was given chloral hydrate...on multiple occasions...to keep quiet. I gave him laudanum before I realized Snyder gave him chloral. I didn't know he had a tolerance – it saved his life...sir."
Everyone turned to look at where the voice had come from, not noticing the seething glare from Warden Snyder.
Stefano Maltese – Doc – hadn't the slightest bit of fear in his eyes.
Dr. Fuller turned to Snyder. "How is it a boy in your care has more sense than you?"
Without waiting for an answer, Dr. Fuller ushered Jack to come up for his turn. He took his paper and read it, looking at Jack over his spectacles. "Francis Sullivan," he read slowly. Jack didn't mind the use of his real name, he was used to that. "Where are you from?"
"County Clare," Jack replied, keeping his eyes on the ground. "But I grew up here."
"Your parents?"
Snyder stepped in once again. "His mother's dead, and his father's a convict—"
"I am talking to him," Dr. Fuller interjected and waited for Jack to respond.
"What he said," Jack mumbled as Dr. Fuller had him remove his undershirt and take a deep breath, listening to his heart through his stethoscope.
Dr. Fuller had stopped offering his condolences after about the fifth boy. He knew his sympathies wouldn't bring anyone back.
"Do you have any living relatives?" Dr. Fuller asked, feeling Jack's throat, and flashing a light in his eyes.
"I have a sister."
"What's her name?" Dr. Fuller had been asking these kinds of questions, wanting to put the boys at ease as he invaded their space, trying to keep his touches brief.
"Sophie."
"And where is she?"
Jack swallowed, flinching as Dr. Fuller examined a bruise under his left eye. "I don't know."
"Are you two close?'
"Yes."
Dr. Fuller met Jack's watery eyes and stopped asking questions for the rest Jack's physical. He gave Jack a clinical pat on the shoulder at the end, saying, "I'm sure Sophie is lucky to have a brother like you."
Jack didn't say anything. He made his way back to the bench and sank down, doing everything in his power to keep his emotions in check. It was something he'd become good at, but in that moment, it was impossible.
Grim looked like he wanted to offer words of comfort, but he was called up before he could. "Miles Krause, on your feet," Snyder commanded, returning to his original task of supplying records. Snyder looked at the paper Grim handed the doctor. "Learned to write, did you? How convenient."
Grim bit his tongue, removing his shirt as Dr. Fuller had instructed.
Jack's eyes widened. Long, lacerated scars littered Grim's back. Out of all the other boys, Grim had received the worst of Snyder's whip. The boys had their fair share of beatings, but in terms of frequency and duration of the punishment, Grim won by a long shot.
"His father's dead. His mother was treated for hysteria on Blackwell's Island," Snyder volunteered.
Grim winced, uncomfortable with such announcements.
Dr. Fuller was fuming over the scars on Grim's back, touching them, before covering his mouth with a hand in shock. "And what, may I ask, is your justification such treatment?" He asked the Warden, gesturing to the boy's back. "Because I cannot find any infraction for which such a beating would be required, sir."
When Snyder did not produce such a justification, Dr. Fuller exhaled his frustration and readjusted his spectacles in exasperation.
"Do you have any living relatives, Miles?" Dr. Fuller asked, bothered by all he was seeing. "Anyone at all?"
Grim thought for a moment and shook his head.
Snyder barked out an ironic laugh. "It's no use to lie, Krause."
Grim opened his mouth as if to speak, a look of surprise on his face. "I don't know what you're talking about..." Grim said.
Jack and the others exchanged looks of confusion. What was Snyder talking about?
Dr. Fuller sensed this was something Grim did not want to disclose and moved on.
Matthew Tracey – Muggs – was the last to be examined. Muggs wasn't offering any answers, despite Dr. Fuller's patience in asking the questions. "You have two cracked ribs," Dr. Fuller said, taking out his stethoscope. "Did you know that?"
Muggs remained silent, glaring at Dr. Fuller with those empty green eyes. To his credit, Dr. Fuller was not thwarted by such obstinance and continued his evaluation.
"Where are your parents?" Dr. Fuller asked, listening to Muggs' heart.
"Hell," Muggs replied.
Dr. Fuller took that in stride and squinted as he tried to find a steady heartbeat. "Irregular," he said. "And very faint."
Lion raised his eyebrows, whispering to Jack, "And very imaginary."
Grim shot Lion a look that said while he might agree, it was still out of line.
Lion rolled his eyes, nudging Jack again. "I swear, Muggs will murder us in our sleep."
Jack wanted to laugh, but there was truth to what Lion was saying that made him hold back.
When Dr. Fuller had finished, he took the stack of records and tapped them into an organized shuffle. "Okay, I think I've seen enough," he said, gesturing to the boys on the bench. "Thank you, boys, for your cooperation and patience. It was most helpful."
The boys shifted, waiting for Snyder to dismiss them.
Dr. Fuller ran a hand through his hair in exhaustion, struggling to collect his thoughts. He had his work cut out for him.
"Any further questions?" Snyder asked.
Dr. Fuller shook his head. "I..." He paused. "A word in private is in order."
"A brief word, perhaps. My office," Snyder replied, annoyed. "Boys, to the dormitory, and be quick about it."
Mr. Whalen met them outside the door, leading them up the stairs in silence.
As soon as they reached the dorm, the atmosphere changed.
Mr. Whalen was on another tangent, shouting like a madman about minor infractions committed by god knows who. He punctuated his closing statements with a "Hands up!" and waited until they had gotten into the correct formation. Jack and the rest threw their hands against the bed frames, crossing one wrist in front of the other, lying there in dread.
Still grumbling, Mr. Whalen walked about the room, fastening wrists to rusted metal, rougher than usual. He didn't like to do it, not because he found it unjust or disturbing, but because it was an extra chore for him.
Dr. Fuller observed this with apprehension, troubled by the notion. "What a most unorthodox practice," he said, voicing his thoughts aloud.
"We do this so they don't get any ideas of escape in the middle of the night," Snyder explained, pulling the restraints securely. "You should know, these boys are violent. Unpredictable. They've left me with no choice. And it's only temporary, until they've learned their lesson."
As they left the dormitory, Mr. Whalen locked the door behind them. Jack didn't understand why the door had to be locked. It wasn't as if any of them could get up.
In the warden's office, Dr. Fuller paced back and forth before Snyder and Whalen, disturbed by the day's events.
"Now that you've seen the city's miscreants, do you still wish to continue your mission?" Snyder asked after a moment of silence. "Roosevelt didn't have much to say on the matter."
Dr. Fuller didn't answer right away, looking at Snyder's plate of bread and cheese, his glass of scotch beside the tray. It made Dr. Fuller sick to his stomach to know there were boys in that dark, cold dormitory, starving to death.
"You listen here," Dr. Fuller said, taking a breath. "Those boys have been neglected, and you have not cared for them. Not in the slightest."
Whalen and Snyder exchanged a glance. "Not cared for..." Snyder repeated, raising an eyebrow. "How do you mean?"
"Locking them up for the day, no fresh air or sunlight, keeping them in the dark," Dr. Fuller continued, trying to keep calm. "Feeding them scraps here and there, withholding bathing privileges. And it is far too cold for any of those poor souls in that dormitory. I could see them trembling. Or was the simply out of fear?"
"Dr. Fuller, you don't understand our methods of rehabilitation," Snyder interjected. "This is all correctional in practice, so they are not tempted toward immoral behavior." He crossed his arms across his broad chest. "Besides, they're in no risk of danger. We keep them fed and clothed. We give them time outside. We provide blankets from generous donations of the city."
"But the discipline," Dr. Fuller insisted. "From the horrific wounds on them, I gather severe beatings are a regular occurrence. Do you have any idea of what it's like to be beaten like that?"
Snyder sighed. "How else are we to get through to these wild animals?"
"They are not wild animals, sir!" Dr. Fuller slammed his hand against the desk. "They are children without a kind friend in the world. They don't know what they're doing."
"Doctor, clearly we have disagreements over the ways to reform a boy, but—"
"Disagreements over ways to reform?" Dr. Fuller laughed, making Whalen and Snyder freeze in fury. "Warden Snyder, I don't think it isn't your intention to reform these boys so much as it is to break them. Truth be told, I am sickened by this torture."
Whalen glared at the doctor. "How dare you speak to the warden like that, you self-righteous quack—"
Warden Snyder held up a hand, halting his speech. "No, no, Whalen. The good doctor is right," he said with a smarmy grin. "He is the expert, after all. It might be best to correct our standards here."
Dr. Fuller looked doubtful yet calmer. "I will not be made a mockery of," he warned.
"On the contrary, doctor," Snyder smirked. "You've given us something to contemplate."
Dr. Fuller, not quite knowing what the warden was getting at, fell silent.
"Those boys are compulsive liars, you know," Snyder said, looking back at the doctor. "Can't believe a word they say. How do you suggest we remedy that?"
Dr. Fuller looked from Snyder to Whalen. "They've suffered, that much is clear. What good would it do them to lie?"
"Poor dears," Snyder said, conjuring a pitiful expression. As quick as it came, it left. "Whalen will show you out."
Dr. Fuller remained worried as Whalen led him out of the institution. "Mark my words, I will be back. This is far from over," he said to Whalen, and then he climbed into his carriage and took off.
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Hell is a Sober Crawl