It was a warm, quiet night in Tulsa, the kind where the world felt just big enough to hold onto. The curtains were open, the streetlight glowing soft through the window, and laughter filled the Curtis house—real, belly-deep laughter, the kind that only ever came when all three brothers were home. Ponyboy, thirteen, sat cross-legged at the table, halfway through a joke Sodapop already knew the punchline to, but was grinning anyway. Sodapop, fifteen and all charm and sunshine, tossed a crumpled napkin at him, missing on purpose just to make Ponyboy feel quick.

Darry, nineteen and pretending not to smile, was finishing his plate by the sink. He didn’t say much at dinner these days—working all the time, always tired—but when he did, the boys listened. He leaned back against the counter, arms crossed, watching them like he was memorizing the moment. Maybe part of him already knew how fragile it all was.

Then the knock came. Sharp. Unexpected. Everything stilled. Darry straightened up, exchanged a glance with Sodapop, and made his way to the door.

“Probably just someone selling somethin’,” Ponyboy mumbled, taking another bite. Sodapop nodded, unconcerned.

It was sharp. Too sharp. Not the kind of knock neighbors used. Darry glanced at the door, his smile faltering. He set his plate down, wiping his hands on a towel. “Stay there,” he told them. “Finish eating.”

But when the door opened, and Darry saw the two officers standing on the porch, hats in their hands and sorrow in their eyes, something in the air cracked. He didn’t speak right away. Just stood there. Still.