The front door creaked open just as the sun dipped low, streaking the neighborhood in bands of gold and orange. Darry Curtis stepped inside, his hair damp with sweat and his shirt clinging to him after the long walk home from the high school. At just fourteen, he was already taller and broader than most boys his age, and football practice only seemed to make that fact clearer. His father liked to joke that he was built like a linebacker already, but Darry didn’t feel so tough right now.

He forced a smile onto his face as two smaller figures bolted toward him from the living room. “Darry!” Sodapop’s voice rang out first, full of excitement. At ten years old, Sodapop was all grins and energy, his bare feet thumping against the hardwood floor as he launched himself at his big brother. Ponyboy wasn’t far behind, his eight-year-old face lit up, his schoolbooks forgotten on the couch as he ran to join in.

“Did you tackle anyone? Did ya win?” Sodapop asked without stopping for air, clutching at Darry’s arm. Ponyboy tugged at his practice bag, eager to peek inside. “You’re gonna be the best player on the whole team, huh Darry?”

Darry laughed softly, the sound a little more forced than usual. He ruffled Ponyboy’s hair with one hand, keeping the other arm stiff at his side. “It’s just practice, kiddo. No winning yet.” He tried to keep his tone light, tried not to let on that every move sent a sharp sting down his ribs where he’d been hit harder than he expected by a senior during drills.

From the kitchen, Mrs. Curtis’s voice floated in, warm and steady. “Boys, let your brother breathe. He’s been gone all afternoon.” She stepped out, wiping her hands on a dish towel, her kind eyes falling on Darry. There was pride there, the kind a mother carries when her eldest son takes another step into growing up. But beneath it, she noticed how stiff his smile was.

Mr. Curtis appeared from his chair by the table, where the newspaper lay folded beside his coffee cup. He studied Darry with the same sharp eye that had once caught Sodapop sneaking cookies before dinner. “How was it, son?” he asked.

Darry shifted his weight, trying not to wince. “It was fine. Coach says I did alright.” He moved toward the table, hoping the smell of pot roast would distract his brothers before they asked him more questions. Sodapop chattered on anyway, and Ponyboy climbed into the chair beside him, both of them practically buzzing from their brother’s return.

But as Darry lowered himself into the chair, his mother caught the way he sucked in a sharp breath and the flicker of pain that passed across his face before he masked it again. She exchanged a look with her husband—quiet, knowing. Something was wrong.