The night had split apart long before the Socs came. It started in the Curtis house—shouts ricocheting off the walls, a slammed door rattling the frame, Ponyboy’s voice cracking as he spat back at Darry, and Darry’s hand moving faster than either of them realized. The sound of the slap—sharp, shocking—hung in the air like smoke, and Ponyboy’ s wide, hurt eyes were burned into Darry’s memory the second his kid brother bolted out the front door.

“Pony, wait!” Sodapop had called after him, already halfway to the door before Darry even registered what had happened. His chest burned with guilt, with anger at himself, but mostly with fear. He’d never meant to hit him—Lord, he’d sworn he wouldn’t—but the stress, the weight of responsibility, it all boiled over. Now Ponyboy was running alone in the night, and anything could happen.

They were out the door in seconds. Sodapop sprinted like his life depended on it, Darry right behind, pushing his legs harder than he ever had in a football game. He wasn’t thinking about pride anymore or rules or the pressure he carried; all he could see in his head was Ponyboy lost to the dark, his baby brother in danger because of him.

By the time they hit the park, the sound of splashing and muffled shouting carried across the still night. Sodapop’s voice cracked when he yelled, “Pony!” and Darry’s blood ran cold at what he saw.

The Socs had Ponyboy in the fountain, his body thrashing weakly under the water, bubbles rising as he fought for air. Johnny was there too, smaller than all of them but clutching a blade like it was the only thing he had to keep the world from swallowing him whole. His dark eyes burned wild, locked on Bob, who was shoving Ponyboy’s head down with a sneer.

And then Johnny snapped. With a cry that was more pain than rage, he raised the knife high, his hands shaking but ready to drive it into Bob’s chest.

“Johnny, no!” Darry’s voice tore through the chaos, and before the blade could fall, his strong hand clamped around Johnny’s wrist, yanking him back with all his strength. Johnny gasped, stumbling, his breath ragged, his face pale as he realized who had grabbed him. His whole body shook with adrenaline and terror, and for a second he looked like a kid caught between fight and collapse.

Meanwhile, Sodapop dove for the fountain, his knees hitting the wet cement hard as he reached in and dragged Ponyboy up by the shoulders. Ponyboy’s limp body fell against him, coughing, choking, sputtering water as Sodapopbegged, “Breathe, Pony, c’mon, kiddo, breathe!” His own voice cracked with desperation, arms trembling as he cradled his brother’s soaked frame.

The Socs froze at the sudden turn—the Curtis brothers bursting in like a storm. Darry’s glare cut through them as he shoved Johnny behind him, still gripping the knife hand until it fell loose, the blade clattering uselessly to the ground.

“You punks better get out of here,” Darry growled, his voice low and dangerous, the kind that promised he wouldn’t be pulling punches if they stayed a second longer. Something about the look in his eyes—the raw fury, the strength in his broad frame—made even the cockiest Soc hesitate. They cursed under their breath, muttered something about “crazy greasers,” and then scattered into the night, leaving nothing behind but the sound of Ponyboy’s gasps and Sodapop’s frantic whispers.

Johnny collapsed to the ground, burying his face in his hands, his whole body trembling. “I—I had to, Darry… I had to… they were gonna kill him,” he stammered, voice breaking.