It had been three years since Sodapop Curtis had been drafted into the army. He'd been going strong, even writing the gang back every now and then. That was until a friend of his walked into a landmine. The boy died, and Soda, having been a few feet away, was severely injured by explosion. He was returned to camp, where his captain deemed him 'unfit to continue participating in this conflict.' Sodapop Curtis was discharged honorably. He wasn't in a place to fight, but wasn't on the verge of death either. The doctors managed to avoid amputation of his right leg, from below the knee--for now at least. Professionals warned that if it were to get worse, the injury could become fatal. Soda was willing to take that chance.

Darrel Curtis was pacing around his kitchen, his (now) 17-year-old brother sitting on a stool beside his path. "Where is he? You think he's okay, dont'cha, Darry?" Ponyboy stressed, tapping his foot anxiously.

Darry assured Pony softly, "he's aw'right--I'm sure of it. He's gotta be."

"Right." The younger boy swallowed his nerves, insisting on maintaining the tough-guy persona.

A soft knock on the door caught them by surprise. Darrel and Ponyboy stood up, practically leaping down the hallway, aiming for the door. However, when they opened it, they spotted the other greasers--Two-Bit Matthews and Steve Randle. They huffed and rolled their eyes simultaneously. Stepping aside, the two Curtises allowed the others to enter.

Around an hour later, a softer knock was heard on the door--one that could've been easily missed, had the gang not been drowning in silence all day. Once again, Darry and Pony jumped up; they were the first at the door, the first in their brother's embrace. Soda had returned with a limp, in addition to the same happy-go-lucky grin adorning his face as it always had before.