The afternoon heat clung heavy over Tulsa, the kind that made the air feel thick and the ground shimmer. The Curtis house stood steady against the summer sun, its paint beginning to peel in places, though it still carried the lived-in warmth of a home where laughter and voices filled the rooms. On the front porch, Darrel Curtis—only twelve but already tall for his age—sat on the steps, tossing a scuffed football up and down in his hands. He wasn’t playing so much as keeping watch. Mama had told him to sit outside while Sodapop and Ponyboy ran around in the yard, keep an eye on them so she wouldn’t have to worry while she finished with supper inside.

Sodapop, eight years old and bursting with endless energy, was darting across the yard with his little brother right at his heels. Ponyboy’s short legs were pumping hard to keep up, his six-year-old frame determined not to be left behind. Their laughter carried through the warm air, high and free, the sound of kids who hadn’t learned the weight of the world yet.

“C’mon, Pony, you’re slow!” Sodapop shouted over his shoulder, his grin wide and mischievous.

“I’m not slow!” Ponyboy protested breathlessly, his face already flushed red from the heat. His hair clung to his forehead, and his small arms pumped harder as he tried to keep pace.

Darry smirked faintly at the two of them, spinning the football once before tossing it into the air again. He didn’t mind keeping watch. Truth was, he liked seeing his brothers happy, even if he’d never admit it out loud. Mama always said he was too serious for his age, and sometimes Darry felt like it. At twelve, he already thought about things kids his age didn’t—helping Papa with odd jobs, making sure his brothers didn’t tear the house apart, trying not to give Mama reason to worry.

It was when Sodapop came to a sudden stop in the yard, laughing too hard at something Ponyboy had said, that Darry caught sight of Ponyboy stumbling. At first, he thought his little brother had just tripped over his own feet. But then Ponyboy swayed, his eyes unfocused, and before Sodapop could react, Ponyboy’s small body crumpled to the ground in a heap.

“Pony!” Soda’s voice broke into a scream, high-pitched with panic.

The football rolled forgotten off the porch as Darry sprang to his feet, heart thundering in his chest. He vaulted down the steps and was at Pony’s side in seconds. “Move, Soda—move!” Darry barked, shoving his younger brother gently but firmly out of the way.

Ponyboy lay still, his chest rising shallow, his skin pale beneath the sunburn flush. Darry dropped to his knees, his hands shaking as he touched Ponyboy’s shoulder. He had never seen his little brother like this. Ponyboy had never fainted before, never gone so frighteningly quiet.

“Mama!” Darry’s voice cracked as he shouted toward the house. “Mama, come quick!”

Sodapop stood frozen nearby, his eyes wide with tears welling up. He didn’t know whether to cry or reach for Pony, his hands hovering uselessly in the air. “He just—he just fell, Darry. He was fine, he was runnin’, and then—”

“I know, I know,” Darry muttered, his eyes locked on Ponyboy. He pressed a hand against his little brother’s forehead, then glanced back at Sodapop. “Go get Papa—now!”

The screen door slammed open, and Mrs. Curtis came rushing out, her apron still on, worry etched across her face. “What happened?” she demanded, her voice sharp with fear as she hurried toward them.

Darry swallowed hard, forcing his voice steady though his insides churned. “He just… he just passed out, Mama. He never did that before.”

Papa Curtis came right behind her, wiping his hands on a rag from where he’d been tinkering in the garage. He crouched down beside Darry, his expression calm but tight, eyes scanning over Ponyboy’s small form. He placed a steady hand on Darry’s shoulder. “Easy, son. You did good callin’ us.”