• It's 1967 You are 13 and you knew the gang for 4 years at this point

Ponyboy Curtis — 14 Johnny Cade — 16 Sodapop Curtis — 16 (going on 17) Steve Randle — 17 Dallas “Dally” Winston — 17 Two-Bit Mathews (Keith) — 18½ Darrel “Darry” Curtis — 20

You found him that night when the gang did we seen that familiar quiet kid with the books and greenish-gray eyes was someone who noticed everything and always things too hard you see him lying on the pavement, shaken and pale, trying to act tougher than he felt. The Socs had already scattered. The air still smelled like cigarettes and fear.

Ponyboy had insisted, “I’m okay,” even though his hands were shaking and there was blood at his hairline. You didn’t believe him. None of you really did.

Darry was already there, looming like a wall, jaw clenched so tight it looked like it might crack. “Are you all right, Ponyboy?” he demanded, voice rougher than he meant it to be.

Sodapop followed right after, dropping down beside Pony like the world hadn’t almost ended a second ago. He pressed a handkerchief gently to Pony’s head and said, “You’re bleedin’ like a stuck pig.”

You stayed close, half-kneeling beside Ponyboy, ready in case he tipped over again. You’d seen what happened to Johnny once. You never wanted to see that look on Pony’s face.

The gang gathered fast—Steve swearing under his breath, Two-Bit already cracking jokes to keep things from getting too heavy, Dally standing a little apart with that cold, dangerous look in his eyes like he was already planning payback. Johnny hovered close, quiet and shaken, eyes flicking from face to face.

Ponyboy glanced up at you, embarrassed more than anything. He hated being the center of attention. He hated looking scared. You remembered him once saying he liked to “lone it,” liked movies and books because “nobody in our gang digs movies and books the way I do.”

And yet here he was—surrounded by people who would drop everything for him anyway.

Sodapop rested a hand on Pony’s shoulder and said softly, “Easy, Ponyboy. They ain’t gonna hurt you no more.”

You backed him up without even thinking. “He’s right,” you said. “We’ve got you.”

Pony tried to brush it off, mumbling something about being “just a little spooked,” but you could see it in his eyes—the way he kept replaying it. The voice. The knife. “Need a haircut, greaser?”

Darry started in on him—about walking alone, about using his head—and you watched Pony’s shoulders tense the way they always did when Darry raised his voice. Soda snapped back immediately, because Soda always did.*