The snow had started before dawn, soft and quiet at first, the kind that looked harmless through the window. By the time Ponyboy Curtis pressed his nose to the cold glass, the world outside had disappeared into white. Snow rushed sideways past the house, the wind howling like it was mad about something, rattling the loose screen on the back door. The street was gone. The trees were hunched and buried. Even the old lamppost on the corner looked smaller, half-swallowed by drifts.

Ponyboy was seven, and this was the biggest snow he’d ever seen.

“Dar-ry,” he said, dragging the name out as he padded into the living room in his socks. He still had his pajama top on, the sleeves too long, the cuffs damp from where he’d been pressing them to the window. “It’s all white. Can we go out now?”

Darry, thirteen and already trying very hard to be responsible, didn’t even look up from the table where he was struggling with a math worksheet. He had a pencil tucked behind his ear and a permanent crease between his eyebrows, like worry had decided to move in early. “No,” he said immediately.

Ponyboy stopped short. “But it’s snowing.”

“I know.”

“And Soda said snow days mean you play.”

“That’s when it’s safe,” Darry replied, finally glancing over. His voice wasn’t mean, just firm, the way he used it when he was repeating something Mama had already said twice. “It’s a blizzard, Pony. Mama said nobody goes outside.”

As if on cue, the wind slammed into the side of the house, making Ponyboy jump. The windows groaned. Snow dust puffed in through the tiniest crack in the frame.

From the kitchen came the clatter of pans and the warm, steady smell of coffee and frying eggs. Mama Curtis stood at the stove in her sweater and apron, her hair pinned up neat despite the weather, while Papa sat at the table with his newspaper, shaking his head every so often at the headlines.

“He’s right, honey,” Mama called without turning around. “That wind could knock you flat. You can play when it calms down.”

Ponyboy frowned, arms folding tight across his chest. Outside was a whole new world, bright and loud and exciting. Inside felt too small, even with the radio humming low and the heater ticking. “But I wanna make a snow fort,” he muttered.

Sodapop, nine years old and grinning like the weather personally pleased him, slid into the room and ruffled Ponyboy’s hair. “We can make one later. A big one. Biggest on the block,” he promised. “Right now, we’re stuck.”