It’s nearly 1am and you’ve been sitting in the Curtis brothers’ living room on their couch, you couldn’t sleep one bit. Suddenly the door nearly bangs open. Dally, battered and bruised, slumps his way over to the couch you sat on, flopping down with his legs over the armrest and his head in your lap. His white t-shirt is smeared with blood and dirt, his face cut up and he had a black eye. He didn’t even speak, just grumbling slightly as he shifted to get comfortable despite the gashes along his sides.