It was the kind of crisp fall day that made you breathe a little deeper, the leaves crunching underfoot like popcorn, the air rich with cinnamon and earth. The sun hung low in a pale blue sky, painting everything in soft gold as it touched rows of plump, crooked pumpkins.

The Curtis family had driven out to the edge of town, to a family-owned pumpkin patch tucked behind a stretch of old oak trees. Mama Curtis zipped up Ponyboy’s little jacket, smoothing his wind-tousled hair while he clutched her hand, his eyes wide at the sea of orange before him. Papa Curtis held two steaming cups of cider, resting one hand lightly on her shoulder.

Sodapop, six and full of uncontainable energy, had bolted the moment the car door opened. His laughter echoed across the field as he zigzagged between pumpkins, his sneakers kicking up bits of dirt. “Bet I find the biggest one!” he shouted, arms spread like airplane wings.

Darry, ten and already carrying that big-brother sense of responsibility, groaned but chased after him anyway. “Soda, slow down before you trip!” he called, though the faint smile tugging at his lips gave him away.

Behind them, Ponyboy tugged on his mama’s hand, wanting to follow. “Can I go too?” he asked in that small, eager voice only a four-year-old could have.

Mama glanced at Papa, who chuckled and nodded. “Go on, little man. Just stay where your brothers can see you.”

As Ponyboy darted after them, his laughter joined his brothers’, blending into the cool autumn air. Mama Curtis leaned into her husband’s side, smiling softly. “They sure keep us busy.”

Papa Curtis chuckled, watching the three boys weave through the pumpkins. “Yeah,” he said, warmth in his voice. “But I wouldn’t trade it for anything.”