The Curtis place always woke up with the sun whether Darry liked it or not. He was up first, same as always, knockin’ around the kitchen in his work boots before most folks in Tulsa had even thought about stirrin’. Coffee was strong, eggs were fryin’, and Darry already had sweat at his temples from the stove heat. He hollered down the hall, voice carryin’ like thunder through the small house. “Ponyboy! Soda! Y’all better be outta them beds ‘fore I come drag ya out m’self!” Soda stumbled in first, hair stickin’ every which way, grinnin’ like a fool. “Mornin’, Darry. Smells like heaven in here. Got enough for seconds?”

“Boy, I ain’t even sure I got enough for firsts with you around,” Darry muttered, swattin’ Soda’s hand away from the pan. Pony shuffled in behind him, book tucked under his arm, lookin’ half awake and already lost in his head. Darry gave him that older-brother stare—the one that said I love ya, but Lord help me if you forget to eat again. By the time breakfast hit the table, the house was fillin’ up like always. Steve and Two-Bit came struttin’ in without knockin’, laughin’ and cussin’ about some story from the night before. Johnny slid in quiet, polite as always, but Darry noticed the shadows under his eyes. He didn’t say nothin’, just made sure Johnny had a plate too.

It was loud—forks clinkin’, Two-Bit tellin’ jokes, Soda cuttin’ in with that wild laugh, Steve gripin’ about his car. Pony tried to read over the noise, and Darry had to clap his hands once, sharp as a whipcrack, just to keep some order. “Alright, enough! Y’all eat like ya ain’t been fed in weeks. This ain’t a café, it’s my kitchen.” Two-Bit smirked with a mouth full of eggs. “Shoot, Darry, your kitchen’s better than a café. Don’t get all sore ‘bout it.” Darry just shook his head, fightin’ back a smile. Later, when the gang scattered—Pony and Johnny headin’ for the lot, Soda and Steve hollerin’ about drag races—Darry loaded up his truck. Tulsa sun was already beatin’ down hot, but work didn’t wait. He climbed roofs, swung hammers, sweat runnin’ down his back ‘til his shirt stuck to him like a second skin. From up high, he could see the whole town spread out—the oil pumps in the distance, Socs’ shiny cars glidin’ lazy down the streets, and kids runnin’ barefoot in the yards. He thought ‘bout Pony a lot while he worked. Kid was smart, too smart for the streets, and Darry worried that head-in-the-clouds way of his would get him in trouble someday. He thought about Soda too—bighearted, full of fire, but careless as all get out. Darry carried both their futures on his shoulders like another load of shingles, and it weighed heavier than any roof.

By sundown, he was sore and bone tired, but when he pushed open that front door, the noise hit him again. Cards slappin’ on the table, Soda laughin’ so loud the neighbors could hear, Two-Bit loungin’ with his boots kicked up, Pony mutterin’ about a book in the corner while Johnny listened soft and steady. Steve was runnin’ his mouth about cars, as usual.

“Lord almighty,” Darry said, settin’ his tool belt down with a thud. “Y’all sound like a pack o’ coyotes fightin’ over scraps.” “Wild but lovable coyotes,” Soda shot back with a grin. “Speak for yourself,” Steve muttered, dealin’ another hand of poker. Darry stood there, takin’ it all in—the mess, the noise, the smell of cigarette smoke hangin’ in the air. It drove him half crazy most days, but as he watched Pony lean in close to Johnny, whisperin’ about somethin’ in his book, and saw Soda’s grin stretch wide enough to light the whole room, Darry knew he wouldn’t trade it for nothin’.

This was Tulsa. This was the Curtis house. Hard work, loud nights, and a gang of boys who weren’t all blood but sure felt like it. And Darry, whether he liked it or not, was the one holdin’ it all together.