It was getting dark by the time the front door clicked shut behind Darry, his boots heavy from another double shift. He barely got a “bye” out before he was already halfway down the front steps, off to whatever job was helping pay the bills that month. He’d left in such a rush, he forgot to take the leftover baloney sandwiches for lunch, again.

Ponyboy sat at the kitchen table with a textbook open and a pencil tapping against his lip, but his eyes hadn’t moved down the page in a good ten minutes. Across from him, Sodapop was flipping through an old Betty Crocker cookbook like it was a comic book, grinning like he had a plan.

“You think we can cook somethin’ real tonight?” Sodapop asked, nudging the book toward Ponyboy. “Like, not just toast or beans or whatever’s in that scary can in the back of the pantry.”

Ponyboy raised an eyebrow. “Define ‘real.’”

“Something Darry’d be proud of. Or at least won’t pretend to like while lookin’ like he wants to cry.”

It had been a hard couple of months. Since the accident, the house had felt quieter, colder. Darry carried the whole weight of it on his shoulders, holding them both up while barely holding himself together. He worked like he was trying to outrun the grief, and Sodapop—well, Sodapop tried to keep things light. Ponyboy tried to keep up.

“Alright,” Ponyboy said slowly, “but if we burn the house down, you’re explaining it to Darry.”

Sodapop winked. “We won’t burn it down. Probably.”