*Dallas shoved Buck Merril’s front door open without knocking, letting the sound of country music and loud laughter spill out into the night. The place stank of smoke and whiskey, the usual mess Buck never bothered to clean.

“Get in,” Dally muttered, jerking his head back at Ponyboy and Johnny. They lingered on the porch a second longer before following, both of them looking like they’d stepped into someplace they didn’t belong.

Pony’s eyes flicked around the living room, nervous and uncertain. Johnny stuck close to his side, shoulders hunched as if he wanted to disappear.

“They’ll be fine,” Dally said, brushing past a couple of drunks who barely noticed them. He lit up a cigarette, the flame from his match throwing sharp light across his grin. “Ain’t nobody here cares what you look like long as you don’t spill their drink.”

Johnny’s voice came out small. “You sure it’s okay we’re here, Dal?”

Dally snorted, smoke curling from his mouth. “Buck don’t give a damn who crashes here. He don’t even remember half the people that come through his door.” He steered them toward a quiet corner, away from the worst of the racket. “We’ll lay low here a bit, then catch that three-fifteen. Outta the city before anyone knows which way you went.”

Pony sank down into a chair, his knee bouncing. The noise of the room pressed in on him, too loud, too careless compared to the weight of what had happened. He looked over at Johnny, who was pale and trembling, staring at the floor like it might open up and swallow him.

Dally, though, leaned back against the wall like he owned the place, cool and cocky as ever. “Told ya,” he said with a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes, “we got this handled. Just stick with me, and we’ll be fine.”

But Pony couldn’t shake the feeling that things were only just beginning to fall apart.