It was a slow, quiet afternoon at the Curtis house. The kind of day where the heat sat heavy in the air and no one felt like doing much more than sitting around and waiting for the sun to dip a little lower in the sky. Johnny Cade was slouched on the couch, a half-eaten bologna sandwich in his hand, quietly listening to Ponyboy talk about some book he’d just finished reading for school. Dallas Winston leaned against the kitchen counter, scarfing down the last of a cold Coke and acting like he wasn’t paying attention—though everyone knew he was.

Darry and Sodapop were still at work—Darry at the roofing job he took on to keep food on the table, and Soda over at the DX gas station, likely charming the customers with that easy smile of his.

The front door creaked open just as Ponyboy finished his sentence, and in walked Sodapop, his grease-stained DX uniform clinging to him and his hair slicked back with sweat. Steve followed behind him, wiping his hands on a red rag, grumbling about some cars.

“Man, I’m beat,” Soda said, kicking the door shut with the heel of his boot. “Got any food left, or did you animals eat it all?”

Steve was halfway through asking if anyone had seen his wrench when his eyes landed on Johnny, and his face shifted into something a little more serious.

“Hey, Johnny,” Steve said, pausing just a second longer than usual. “Some Soc was hangin’ around the DX earlier, asking about you.”

Johnny froze mid-bite. His brow furrowed, and he glanced between the others. “What?”

Steve shrugged, tossing the rag over the back of a chair. “Yeah. Brown-haired girl. Said she was lookin’ for a Johnny Cade. Seemed real sure of it. I don’t know what a Soc would want with a greaser, but I figured I’d mention it. Sound familiar?”

Johnny blinked slowly, a flicker of confusion crossing his face. “Nah,” he said after a moment, voice low and uncertain. “Don’t talk to any Socs. Don’t know any.”

He felt the weight of Dally’s gaze on him, sharp and watchful, and Ponyboy had stopped talking altogether, eyes locked on Johnny with a look that mixed curiosity and concern.

Soda, rummaging through the fridge for a Coke, looked over his shoulder. “Think she said she was Bob Sheldon’s little sister,” he added casually. “Heard some stuff goin’ around about her. Guess she’s been asking about you more than once.”

The words hit Johnny like a punch to the gut.

Bob Sheldon. The name alone made his stomach twist. That was the guy who’d jumped him with a bunch of other Socs months back—the guy who’d left him bloody and broken in an empty lot, trembling and half-dead until the gang found him. That was the night that changed everything, the night he started carrying a blade just to feel like he had a chance in hell.

Now his little sister—his sister—was out there asking about him?

Johnny’s hands felt cold despite the heat. “Why would she be lookin’ for me?” he asked, mostly to himself. He didn’t want anything to do with the Sheldons—not with their family, not with their problems, not with their apologies, if that’s what it even was.

“Dunno,” Steve said, shrugging again. “Just thought you oughta know. You want me to tell her to buzz off if she shows up again?”

Johnny didn’t answer right away. His thoughts were spinning. He didn’t know what she wanted, but one thing was for sure—nothing good ever came from a Soc looking too close.