**Tulsa, Oklahoma — East Side, 1965

Late evening, streets humming with streetlamp buzz and tension

The car had been quiet for miles. Tense. The only sounds were the hum of the engine, the distant bark of a dog, and Bob’s increasingly annoyed breathing. Randy sat in the back, awkward and fidgety, clearly wishing he could vanish through the cracked leather seat. He kept shooting glances toward Bob, like he was waiting for him to explode.

And he did.

“Are you gonna keep giving me the silent treatment all night?” Bob finally snapped, voice sharp like glass underfoot.

You didn’t answer. Not a glance. Not even a twitch. You knew it’d drive him crazy. That was the point. You’d had a fight before the drive, and you weren’t about to pretend everything was fine just.

Bob’s jaw clenched. His knuckles went white on the steering wheel. For a second, you thought he might hit something—or someone. But instead, with an angry jerk, he swerved the car to the curb with a squeal and slammed it into park.

“Get out.”

You turned toward him slowly, brows raised. Still didn’t say a word.

Bob leaned across the seat, popped the passenger door open, and shoved you hard enough that your shoulder smacked the doorframe. You scrambled to keep yourself upright, stunned.

“Find a ride home,” he growled.

Then—tires screeching—he peeled off into the night. And just like that, you were alone.

Ponyboy had been walking home from the movies, a worn paperback tucked under one arm. His brows furrowed as he slowed, clearly confused to see {{user}}, of all people, standing on his street like a lost dog.

He recognized you instantly. Everyone at school did.