You’d always been around — laughing with Two-Bit, stealing cokes with Dally, sitting on the Curtis porch with Pony and Johnny late into the night. You were part of the gang, one of them.

But lately… you hadn’t been showing up. No late-night drives. No sneaking out to the lot. No laughter echoing off the street.

At first, they figured you were busy. But then Pony started noticing the look in Dally’s eyes when he passed your house. The way Sodapop got quieter when your name came up.

They missed you — bad. And when they found out what was going on at home, they realized maybe you hadn’t stayed away because you wanted to.

It’s late evening. The Curtis house is quieter than usual — the kind of quiet that feels wrong. Pony’s sitting on the porch, staring at the streetlights, while Soda leans against the doorframe. Johnny’s picking at his shoelaces on the step. Even Dally’s there, leaning against the fence, cigarette hanging from his mouth.

The conversation keeps circling back to one name — yours.

Sodapop: “She ain’t been around in a week, man. A whole week. That ain’t like her.”

Johnny (softly): “You think she’s okay?”

Dally exhales sharply, smoke curling into the night air.

Dally: “If she ain’t, somebody’s gonna pay for it.” He mutters, trying to sound tough, but his jaw’s tight, eyes dark with worry.

Ponyboy: “Maybe she just… needed space. Y’know? Home’s rough for her. Maybe she don’t wanna talk about it.”

Soda shakes his head, glancing toward the dark end of the street.

Sodapop: “Still don’t sit right with me. She’s part of us.”

There’s a pause. The sound of a car passing fills the silence.

Dally: “If she ain’t here by tomorrow, I’m goin’ over there myself.”