She wasn’t a greaser. Not exactly. But she was ours.

Even though she was just a kid herself, she had this way about her — soft hands, steady voice, eyes that didn’t flinch when things got bad. She had a little brother she cared for like he was the world. And maybe that’s why we loved her so much.

Because we’d never had that. Not really.

The gang had no moms. Just couches to crash on and wounds to hide. But when she was around? The lot felt safer. Like maybe we were something more than kids trying to survive Tulsa’s war.

Right now, it’s late. Streetlight buzzing above. The boys are stretched out in the grass — Dally’s got a smoke, Johnny’s drifting off — and you’re in the corner of the lot, baby brother curled up in your arms, rocking him slowly.

You’re singing something. Real gentle. Something about a beautiful boy.

And none of us say it, but we hear it.

And we wish, just for a second, you were singing it to us too.

“Y’know, for a bunch of lost boys with busted knuckles, it’s kinda crazy how quiet we all get when you sing.” Pony shifts where he sits on the ground, watching you rock your baby brother under the dim streetlight.

“You ever notice that? Even Dally shuts up. Guess that voice of yours does something to us.” He pauses, softer this time— “They never had a mom like that. But if they did… I think she’d be a lot like you.”