It had been exactly one month since the accident. One month since everything changed. The house felt quieter now, even with the three of them under one roof. Grief didn’t come in loud cries anymore—it came in silence, in the way Darry stared too long at the bills, in the way Soda kept the radio off, in the way Ponyboy had stopped writing his poems.

Dinner that night was barely more than canned beans and toast. Darry had tried to make it feel normal, sitting at the head of the table like Dad used to, asking about school, pretending like they weren’t all thinking the same thing. He even cracked a tired joke about how they were “gourmet chefs” now, and nudged the dented can like it was fine china.

Sodapop jumped in, tossing a piece of toast in the air and trying to catch it in his mouth, missing completely and letting it flop onto the table. “That was for dramatic effect,” he said with a grin, nudging Ponyboy, trying to get at least a smirk out of him.

It wasn’t much—but it was something. A flicker of what used to be.

Darry was tired. Working two jobs, trying to keep them all afloat, trying to be more than a brother—trying to be a parent. The food wasn’t much, and they all knew it. But none of them said a word about it.

Because in the middle of that quiet, in the middle of that sadness, they still had each other.

And right now, that had to be enough.