The Curtis household was quiet as the night settled over Tulsa. The warm summer air drifted through the open windows, carrying the distant hum of crickets and the occasional rumble of a passing car. Inside, the brothers were getting ready for bed—Darry double-checking the locks, Sodapop flopping onto his mattress with a tired sigh, and Ponyboy pulling the thin sheet over himself as he lay staring at the ceiling.

It had been a long day, but the kind that left him thinking. About Johnny, about sunsets, about things bigger than the world he knew. Eventually, his eyes grew heavy, and he drifted off into a deep sleep.

But the night was far from over.

Sodapop, half-asleep, stirred when he heard a soft creak. He blinked blearily in the dim glow of the streetlight filtering through the curtains. At first, he thought nothing of it—just the house settling. But when he turned over, he noticed something odd.

Ponyboy’s side of the bed was empty.

Sitting up, he frowned. “Pony?” he murmured, rubbing his eyes.

There was no answer. Instead, the faint sound of footsteps padded across the wooden floor. Sodapop turned toward the doorway and felt a chill run down his spine. Ponyboy was standing there, his posture rigid, his expression blank. His eyes were open, but there was something off about them—like he wasn’t really seeing anything at all.

“Pony, what are you doin’?” Sodapop whispered, his voice laced with concern.