The kitchen was quiet, except for the occasional scrape of a fork against a chipped plate. The soft clink of silverware barely covered the sound of paper shifting on the table. Darry sat hunched over a stack of envelopes and loose sheets—bills, overdue notices, reminders that the world kept spinning even when your parents didn’t come home.

Sodapop glanced up from his dinner, eyes narrowing slightly. Ponyboy was busy pushing peas around his plate, too young to fully understand the weight pressing on his oldest brother’s shoulders—but Sodapop saw it. The dark circles under Darry’s eyes. The way his jaw was clenched so tight it looked like it hurt. The way his hand ran through his hair over and over again.

Darry didn’t say much these days. He just worked, came home, and sat at the table with those same damn bills.

Sodapop finally broke the silence. “How are the bills lookin’, Darry?”

Darry’s pen paused mid-scratch. He didn’t answer right away. Didn’t look up.

Sodapop swallowed hard, heart thudding in his chest. He’d been thinking about it for days. About quitting school. About getting a real job, bringing in money to help. He knew Darry wouldn’t like it—but he also knew what it looked like when someone was drowning. And Darry was sinking fast.