The courthouse smelled of old wood and chalk dust, the kind of smell Ponyboy had come to expect from schoolrooms, not places where a man’s life—or a boy’s future—was decided. His palms felt slick against the wooden rail of the witness stand as he shifted in his seat. He didn’t want to be here, not like this, with every eye on him, waiting for his words. He wished Johnny was there beside him, but Johnny wasn’t. Johnny never would be again.

The judge, a gray-haired man with a grave face, leaned forward slightly, his hands folded together on the bench. “Ponyboy Curtis,” he said evenly, not unkindly but steady enough to make Ponyboy sit straighter. “Tell us, in your own words, what happened the night of the incident.”

Ponyboy swallowed hard, his throat dry. He glanced over his shoulder quickly—just for courage. Darry and Sodapop were sitting behind him at the long oak benches, dressed nicer than Ponyboy had ever seen them. Darry’s tie looked stiff and uncomfortable, his hair combed neatly, no hint of the grease and sweat from roofing work. Sodapop couldn’t sit still, tugging at his jacket sleeves, his dark eyes flashing with worry every time Ponyboy looked at him. They weren’t just here for Johnny’s memory—they were here because this courtroom could decide whether the three Curtis brothers would be torn apart.