He stood on the street, watching the bustling crowd rush by, the dim New York gas streetlamps lighting up the man selling pamphlets. He started walking slowly towards him, curious, but he was interrupted by a man behind him.

“Hey, kid! Would you look at this!” he said, shoving a pamphlet in the boy’s face. I watched from a distance as the man was joined by two others, who surrounded the boy. They had handed me a pamphlet, which I looked down at,
“The Reynolds Pamphlet, written by Alexander Hamilton,” it read.

“Oh no, Philip!” I whispered to myself, watching as he was crowded by the three men. He pushed away from the group, who ran off, laughing. Philip just stood there, in shock, staring at the pamphlet. I walked up to him, and put my hand on his arm, “Philip?” I said. He didn’t even bother to turn around,

“I know my father wrote it! I know! Just leave me alone!!!” I took my hand off his arm,

“Philip, it’s me. Are you, are you okay?” I asked. He turned around, his eyes wet with angry tears. He kept staring down at the pamphlet, getting slightly angrier every time. I ripped the piece of paper from his hand and threw it into the street, Philip looked up at me, still angry. I heard a whoop from down the street,

“Daddy’s in trouble, Hamilton!!!” I looked over to see Thomas Jefferson, drunk, throwing pamphlets left and right. Rage boiled inside me, and I ran after him.

“Lydia, don’t!!!” Philip called after me, but I ignored him. How could they do that to him? How could they shove the pamphlet that shamed his father, who he was so proud of, in his face. Rage blinding me, I grabbed the back of Jefferson’s long coat, and he turned around, laughing. I hated him, I hated him with every inch of my being. I looked him in the eyes, then punched him in the gut. He doubled over, and shouted out, making Burr and Madison come back around the corner. I panicked, then ran, glad that I wasn’t wearing a huge skirt, and I was just wearing a pair of comfortable trousers from the tailors. Philip was running as well, and I watched as he dashed behind a wall, into an alleyway.

“What got into you? You’re going to be in so much trouble!” he said to me when I had joined him.

“They shoved the pamphlet in your face! They’re the reason I live in the streets! I hate them, and it was too good a chance to miss,” I replied.

“Hey, street rat, get out here!” I heard a shout from Jefferson, who was now not only drunk, but angry as well.

“Lydia, run to my house, I’ll follow you,” Philip whispered to me. This was normal, as I usually had trouble with the law. Thankfully, Philip’s father, Alexander Hamilton, and I hated the same side, and the same people, so we got along fairly well. Eliza, Philip’s mother, pitied me for my life on the streets, my father’s capture, and my mother’s death. I hesitated, then kissed Philip on the cheek and ran, taking the long route so I could avoid the three drunk politicians. I ran until I reached the Hamiltons’ house, where I arrived, out of breath. I knocked on the door three times, and Eliza opened the door. She sighed in relief when she saw me,

“Thank the Lord, it’s you Lydia. I thought it was more journalists. Come on in out of the cold, and tell me what happened.” I thanked her, then stepped into the warm house, keeping my jacket on.

“Philip’s on his way, he took the long route,” I reassured Eliza.

“Good, good,” She said, motioning for me to sit at the old wooden table where I had sat so many times. “What happened? You only ever come here alone when you’re in trouble.” I looked down,

“I punched Jefferson. He was horrible, him and those other two were shoving the bleeding pamphlets in Philips face, and I can’t stand them.” Eliza smiled sadly,

“I will never understand these politicians.” I looked up,

“I’m so sorry about the whole pamphlet thing, it must be hard." Eliza half smiled,

“Thank you, Lydia, I just hope that Philip’s okay. My sister, Angelica, came over from London, she’s helping us all.” I heard a knock on the door, and Eliza opened it, “Philip!” She pulled her son into a hug, which he pushed away from,

“Hello, Mom. Has Angelica arrived yet?” Eliza looked up at the staircase,

“Yes, she’s asleep in the spare room right now. She’ll be so happy to see you.” Philip smiled, then turned to me,

“Did you make it here okay?” He asked me.

“Yes. I told your mum about the pamphlet and everything. How about you, did they give you any trouble?” I said. Philip yawned, then sat down at the circular table next to me,

“It was okay, I had to run for a block or two to avoid them, but apart from that it was fine.” I nodded, also yawning. I looked up at the clock, which read 11 O’clock. From what I could tell, Angelica had just arrived, and Eliza hadn’t been to bed yet.

“Why don’t you sleep here tonight, Lydia?” Eliza offered. “The second guest room is still free.” I smiled,

“If it isn’t any trouble, that would be nice, thank you,” I said to Eliza, glad to have a night inside, rather than on the freezing streets of New York. I was told that it was no trouble, and I decided to go to bed.

“Goodnight, thank you so much,” I said, then squeezed Philip’s hand and retired to the guest room, where I curled up, still fully clothed, underneath the blanket that was laid out on the bed where I was sleeping. The warm room and soft bed made a nice difference to the cold stone and mud of the Albany streets, and I fell asleep almost immediately.