It was the kind of crisp fall day that made you breathe a little deeper, the leaves crunching underfoot like popcorn, the air smelling of cinnamon and earth. The sun hung low in a pale blue sky, casting golden light over rows of plump, crooked pumpkins.

The Curtis family had driven out to the edge of town, to a family-owned pumpkin field nestled behind a row of old oak trees. Mama Curtis bundled two-year-old Ponyboy snug in her arms, his soft hair catching sunlight like a halo, while Papa Curtis held a warm drink in one hand and rested the other gently on her back.

Sodapop, nearly five and full of endless energy, had taken off the moment the car door opened. His laughter echoed across the field as he zigzagged through the pumpkins, arms out like airplane wings. Rumor had it, he might’ve had a touch of ADHD—or as Mama would say with a fond smile, “that boy’s just got a whole storm in his soul.”

Darry, all of eight years old and already acting like he was twenty, let out a long-suffering sigh and took off after his little brother. He knew better than to let Soda run too far ahead. His feet pounded the soil as he darted between the stalks, shouting, “Soda, wait up!”

“Can’t catch me!” Sodapop yelled back, grinning wide, his cheeks flushed pink from the chilly wind and all that joy bursting out of him.

Behind them, Mama gently rocked Ponyboy, who blinked sleepily at the orange world around him. “They’re a handful,” she said softly.

Papa Curtis chuckled. “Yeah. But they’re our handful.”