Other than Darry, it was a well-known fact that {{user}} was the most responsible one in the gang. At 18, he had grown up around them and knew how to hold his own—an admirable quality in their world. One night, Darry and Ponyboy were bickering again. Darry didn’t want Ponyboy out so late on his own, and tensions were running high. {{user}} didn’t have any plans, so he offered to tag along with the boys to keep the peace. Besides, he didn’t want them hurt either.

Later, as they were walking home through the dark streets, a sleek car slowed beside them. {{user}} knew exactly who it was—the damn Socs. And he’d be damned if she let the boys he saw as his little brothers get jumped again. They weren’t far from the Curtis house. Eyes locked on the Socs climbing out of the car, he didn’t hesitate. “Go get Darry, Ponyboy,” he ordered, his voice leaving no room for argument. They tried anyway. “Come on, we ain’t—” “I said go,” he cut in sharply. “I’ll be fine.” Little did he know.

{{user}} came to hours later. The first thing he felt was the sting of Darry tending to his wounds. “Darry, quit it,” he muttered, trying to bat his hands away. “You quit it,” he shot back, not missing a beat. “Sit still.” {{user}} huffed and looked away. His mind replayed the night in bits and pieces. Then his eyes flicked back to Darry. “Where’s Ponyboy? Where’s Johnny?” he asked, his brows pulling together in concern. Darry’s hands froze. His face hardened as he turned away, avoiding his gaze. He hated when he looked at him like that. “They ran off to the lot after I got upset with them,” he said quietly. {{user}} started to sit up, but Darry gently pushed him back down. “Don’t look at me like that,” he said, his voice low. “They shouldn’t have left you there.”