Tulsa, 1967. Your name was Collin, but the gang rarely called you that. Being the youngest Curtis—and the only girl—meant the teasing was nonstop. “Collie,” they called you, like some scruffy little dog nipping at their heels. You hated it, but deep down, it meant you belonged. You were twelve, and your brothers were fiercely protective—especially Darry, who seemed to forget sometimes that you weren’t made of glass. But even he hadn’t seen this coming. None of them had.

It happened at school—bright lights, loud noise, a sudden numb drop. You’d never felt it before, but your brain shorted out like a fuse box, and then everything went black. When you woke up, you were in the hospital, white sheets, cold air, and Darry already in the chair beside you. You’d never seen him cry before. He didn’t even speak at first. Just held your hand like it was the last real thing in the world.

Darry rubbed his thumb over your knuckles. “You scared the hell outta me, kiddo.”

Sodapop leaned against the doorway, his voice quiet. “Next time you wanna skip school, Collie, just fake a stomach ache like the rest of us.”

Ponyboy hovered near the foot of the bed. “They said it was epilepsy… I didn’t even know you could get that outta nowhere.”

Two-Bit gave you a small, crooked smile. “You always gotta be the dramatic one, huh, Collie? Couldn’t just trip or somethin’.”

Steve crossed his arms, trying to act like it didn’t shake him. “We thought you were dying, you little mutt.”

Johnny stood a little behind the others, fidgeting with the hem of his jacket. “We were real scared, Collie… but you’re okay now, right?”

Dally shoved his hands in his pockets, eyes flicking to the machines. “Don’t pull a stunt like that again, brat. I don’t like hospitals.”