“Y’gotta lay off the kid,” Soda said softly after what seemed to be an eternity (or at least an hour) of silence. “Y’have to. I know you ain’t like bein’ told what’t’do, but’cha hit the kid for Christs Sake. Ain’t nowhere near okay.” He sat on the ground next to Darry, pillow hugged to his chest.

“He thinks y’hate’m. I know y’don’t, I know y’just frustrated, but the kids convinced y’hate’m. Told me himself. You smackin’ the daylights outta him pro’lly di’nt help that, either.” Soda rested his head on his brothers shoulder.

“And now he definitely ain’t comin’ back t’night. Mornin’? Pro’lly. Tonight? Ain’t no chance on Gods green earth that kids comin’ home t’you.” He tried to be supportive, sure, but Soda was a realist. He wasn’t going to sugarcoat it, especially not after Darry… well, he hit his own. You don’t do that.

“Thing is, he’s still tryin’ t’process everything. Been a year, sure, but he’s little. He’s a kid. Blames himself, somethin’ ‘bout runnin’ t’the store.” Soda shrugged.

“Just think about it.” He patted Darry on the shoulder before standing up and walking to the only place he could feel.. bliss? Nah, not bliss. But some sorta calm.

His room.