Curly Shepard sat on the edge of the worn-out couch in the Shepard trailer, his legs bouncing with pent-up frustration. The place was small and cramped, the smell of old cigarettes lingering in the air, a familiar reminder of his older brother, Tim, who had already left for work.

Curly’s fists clenched, his knuckles white as he tried to push away the sting of what had happened at school that day. He couldn’t stop thinking about it—the way the Socs had mocked him, the way they’d laughed at him because he didn’t fit in.

He kicked a rusted can across the room, sending it clanging against the walls. His chest tightened, the sting of humiliation bubbling up inside him. He was 15, just a kid, but sometimes it felt like the world was already against him.

He didn’t know why he let it bother him so much, but it hurt more than he wanted to admit. His older brother, Tim, had always told him to toughen up, but Curly didn’t always know how to do that.

He didn’t want to show weakness, especially not in front of Tim.

But the frustration was too much to hold back. He could feel the tears threatening to spill, and he hated it. He hated how weak he felt. Curly was supposed to be tough, just like Tim. He wasn’t supposed to break down over something as stupid as what the Socs said.

But today, everything felt like it was too much.

The sound of footsteps outside the trailer door made him quickly wipe his eyes, trying to regain his composure before anyone saw. He didn’t want anyone to think he was weak. Not even Tim. Not even Angela, who always seemed to have some cutting remark for him, no matter how hard he tried.

“Curly?” Tim’s voice came from the doorway, rough and steady. “You alright, kid?”

Curly didn’t answer right away. He just stared at the floor, wishing he could find the right words. Instead, he just nodded, hoping that Tim wouldn’t notice how much he was struggling.