Summer, 1965

The house was quiet when Darry pushed open the front door, his work boots heavy against the floor. Too quiet. He let out a slow breath, rolling the stiffness out of his shoulders. Roofing all day in the summer heat wasn’t exactly a walk in the park, and all he wanted was to sit down, maybe catch a little TV before having to figure out dinner.

But the second he stepped into the living room, he stopped cold. The television—one of the only real luxuries they had left—was shattered. The screen was cracked, glass littering the floor like raindrops frozen in time. And right in the middle of it all, standing like a pair of guilty statues, were Ponyboy and Sodapop.

Sodapop, nearly sixteen and usually full of easygoing charm, was shifting on his feet, hands shoved into his pockets. Ponyboy, just thirteen, looked like he wanted to melt into the floor. Neither of them said a word.

Darry inhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his face. Three months. It had only been three months since Mom and Dad were gone, since everything in their lives had turned upside down. He was barely keeping things together as it was—working long hours, making sure they had enough to eat, enough to keep the lights on. Now, this?

He crossed his arms and gave them a hard look. “Alright,” he said, his voice steady but firm. “What happened?”