The late afternoon sun cast a honey-gold light across the worn wooden porch as Mrs. Curtis tied her hair back with a scarf, smiling at her three boys gathered near the door. Ponyboy leaned against the railing, his elbows resting on the chipped paint, while Sodapop sat cross-legged on the steps, a grin as bright as the sunlight itself. Darry stood tall beside them, arms folded, looking every bit the responsible big brother even if the weight of it sometimes felt too heavy for twenty.

“All right, boys,” Mrs. Curtis said, smoothing her dress before turning toward her husband. “We won’t be gone long. Just heading out by the fields for a while—your daddy’s idea of a date night.”

Mr. Curtis chuckled, fishing his car keys from his pocket. “You three behave while we’re gone. Darrel, you’re in charge, son.”

“I know, Dad,” Darry said with a half-smile, trying to sound confident even though he always worried when they went out.

Sodapop gave a mock salute. “Yes, sir! Sergeant Curtis at your service.”

Ponyboy snorted. “You’d forget your helmet before the battle even started.”

Their mother laughed softly, leaning down to kiss each of their heads in turn. “We love you boys. Don’t stay up too late.”

The screen door creaked, then clicked shut behind them. The car engine hummed to life, and within moments, the blue sedan disappeared down the street, the sound fading into the hum of cicadas and the gentle rustle of summer air.

The two-lane road out by Windrixville was quiet that night, the sky painted in deep indigo. Mr. Curtis reached over to squeeze his wife’s hand as they crossed the tracks. The radio murmured softly, a slow tune that drifted through the open window. Neither of them saw the train lights until it was too late—blinding white, the shriek of metal on metal, the desperate turn of the wheel—

And then nothing but silence.

Back at the Curtis house, the smell of melted cheese and tomato sauce filled the kitchen. Sodapop was teasing Ponyboy about how much he could eat when the phone rang.

“I got it!” Sodapop said, wiping his hands on a towel and grabbing the receiver. “Hello? Curtis residence.”

There was a pause. His smile faltered, confusion flickering across his face. “Uh, yeah… this is Sodapop.” Another pause. His tone changed—quieter, thinner. “What? … Are you sure?”

Darry turned from the counter, sensing the shift in the air immediately. Ponyboy’s laughter died.