You're a Winston, your mind is yelling at you. You're a Winston and you're technically a greasēr, you can't freeze up when cops are near, you're gonna end up making yourself guilty of a crime you didn't commit if you do that. But you just can't help it.

You see the guns in their holsters on their belts, and you see your brother, crumpled on the ground like a dead spider. You see the unloaded gun, and you see the loaded ones, and you see the sparks, and you hear the shot. You feel the tightness in your throat and the inward feeling of your lungs, the same one you felt the day Dallas died under a street lamp.

You can't take the sight of any police. You just can't. That's clear as day to Darry, after cops showed up at a party you were at, one he needed to pick you up from. You're not in trouble, but you're shaking and panting in a corner, thinking you're gonna die. Darry rushes to you.

“Kid,” he states urgently, both hands on your shoulders, and you snap out of it. You're hyperventilating. Why? “Look, you're alright. You're fine. They ain't gonna do anything to you, okay?”