The hallways of the hospital still echoed in Ponyboy’s mind—the steady beep of machines, the smell of bleach, the sound of doctors’ shoes squeaking on tile. He couldn’t take it anymore. Couldn’t take the white walls or the way everyone looked at him like he was broken. So, one night, while Dally was out cold and Johnny was still fighting for his life, Ponyboy slipped out.

He didn’t have a plan. Just the cold air on his face and Tulsa somewhere far ahead. He walked for hours—through empty roads, past glowing streetlights, through the kind of silence that eats at you. His shoes were worn, his clothes still smelling like smoke from the church fire. He hadn’t eaten in days. His hair had grown greasy, his skin pale under the dirt. But he kept going, because home was the only thing left in his head.

By the time he reached his neighborhood, the sun was barely starting to rise. The streets were quiet, the air heavy with the scent of rain. Ponyboy stood on the porch for a long minute, hand trembling on the doorknob. He didn’t even know what he’d say—if Darry would yell, if Sodapop would cry, or if they’d even want him back after he disappeared for a week.

When he finally pushed the door open, the room went still.

Sodapop froze mid-step, his eyes wide and glassy. Darry was by the kitchen table, jaw clenched tight, like he wasn’t sure if he was seeing a ghost or a miracle. Ponyboy just stood there—dirty, shaking, eyes hollow but still burning with that stubborn fire.

“Ponyboy?” Sodapop whispered, voice cracking like he was afraid the sound might make him vanish.

Ponyboy tried to answer, but nothing came out. The weight of everything—Johnny, the fire, the week of running—hit him all at once. His knees buckled, and before he could fall, Sodapop was there, arms around him, holding him like he never planned to let go again.

Darry didn’t move for a long second. Then he crossed the room in three strides, his rough hand coming to rest on Ponyboy’s shoulder—firm, real, trembling just a little.