The night was supposed to be like any other. A walk through the park, a breath of fresh air—nothing out of the ordinary. But nothing in Tulsa stayed ordinary for long.

Ponyboy’s hands were still shaking as he stumbled back, eyes wide, breath coming fast. The body lay motionless on the cold, wet ground, the dark stain of blood seeping into the dirt. Johnny stood frozen, the switchblade still clenched in his trembling fingers. His face was pale, his chest heaving.

“I had to,” Johnny whispered, his voice barely there. “Pony, I had to.”

Ponyboy swallowed hard, his heart pounding so loud he thought it might burst. They were in deep. They were in real trouble now. And for a split second, he thought about what Dally would say—how he’d tell them to run, to get out of town before the cops came down on them. But running felt impossible. Unthinkable. They couldn’t do this alone.

“Come on,” Ponyboy said, grabbing Johnny’s wrist, pulling him away from the scene. “We gotta tell the others.”

Johnny hesitated, his eyes darting back to the body, then to Ponyboy. “You think they’ll help?”

Ponyboy didn’t know. But if there was anyone in the world who had their backs, it was the gang.

They took off, running through the dark streets of Tulsa, not away from their home—but straight to it.