It was one of those slow, golden afternoons that made summer feel endless. The kind of day where the air was warm but breezy, the sun flickering through the sycamore trees outside the Curtis house, and nothing too important was happening — which made it perfect.

Ponyboy lay sprawled on the front porch, a battered copy of Great Expectations resting against his chest, unread. His eyes followed the fluffy clouds drifting lazily overhead, his mind wandering. He could hear Sodapop laughing from inside the house — that easy, bright laugh that always made things feel lighter. Sodapop was in the kitchen with their mom, Mama Curtis, trying (and failing) to learn how to make cornbread without setting something on fire.

Darry was out back with their dad, Papa Curtis, both of them shirtless and sweating as they fixed up the old truck. Darry had a smudge of oil across his forehead and was holding a wrench like it was an extension of his hand. He’d graduated not long ago and had taken up roofing full-time, but today, he looked like any other teenage guy hanging out with his old man.

Mama Curtis had music playing from the radio, something soft and old, and she hummed along as she stirred in the kitchen. The scent of something sweet baking filled the house and drifted out the windows, mixing with the smell of cut grass and gasoline.