Tulsa, Oklahoma, 1957. Summer hung thick in the air, the kind that made the pavement sticky under bare feet and left the scent of sun-warmed grass drifting through open windows. The neighborhood wasn’t much—just rows of small, worn houses, where kids ran loose until the streetlights flickered on and mothers called them home.

The Curtis house stood near the end of the block, paint peeling a little around the porch, but it was always full of life. Their dad, a broad-shouldered man with grease-stained hands, spent his days at the auto shop, coming home smelling like motor oil and sweat, always ready with a rough chuckle or a ruffle of hair. Their mom was softer, warm brown eyes that caught everything, arms always open for a hug or to wipe a dirty face clean. She had a way of making even a little stretch far enough.

Ponyboy, just five years old, was the quietest of the three. He spent most of his time trailing after his older brothers, a book clutched in his small hands, looking up to them like they hung the stars. Sodapop, seven and all sunshine, never sat still for long, always laughing, always moving, the type of kid who could turn even a bad day into something golden. And then there was Darry—eleven years old, already taller than most, with sharp blue eyes that took in more than he let on. He played ball in the yard with the neighborhood kids, but he also watched over his brothers, like he already knew the world didn’t always play fair.

At night, their mom would hum old songs while she did the dishes, their dad’s low voice joining in from his chair. Ponyboy would curl up on the couch, listening to the melody, Sodapop would still be fidgeting even as he dozed off, and Darry would sit at the kitchen table, pretending not to be tired as he helped with the bills, his feet just barely touching the floor.