A/N: Thanks to everyone who reviewed the last chapter! It means so much! PLEASE, if you're reading, please add a review. Feedback of any kind encourages me. This chapter kinda veers to a sadder part of the story, but it picks up on the humor side too.

Disclaimer: See chapter one.

When I'm in a small, confined place like a hospital room, I'm left alone with my thoughts.

And my thoughts let me know how different I am now than I was before. How I was once a track star, advanced placement student with a dream, seemingly destined to go to an Ivy League school and how I now feel like I'm truly a greaser stuck in a world where I couldn't truly give two shits.

Curly's gone, getting coffee or something, because hospitals don't have bars, though he could be truly gone because he doesn't owe me nothing, and he doesn't have to stay here to clean up my mess for me, even though he caused it in the first place.

A nurse bustles in and adjusts some medicine pumps and I immediately start to feel less and less. Gee, I hate being out of control—having things and invasive treatments being done to me when I was unable to have a say in what happens to me. It's an irrational fear and it's a stupid thing to do considering I could maybe die without the treatments and drugs, but who knows. I sure as hell don't.

I'm drugged and I'm upset; it's a power duo, always going hand in hand. It's like I can't have one without the other. I wonder how disappointed my brothers are gonna be in me this time, because it's not like I do that enough already.

I disappointed Darry by choosing to go to college in Oklahoma, rather than somewhere far. I was slightly hurt by this at first, thinking he was wanting me to be as far away from him as possible, but then I realized he just wants me to be able to get somewhere other than our junky little side of Tulsa.

However, the thought of leaving my brothers is slightly unnerving, and the University of Oklahoma was the only place that offered a full ride. So I took it.

Though obviously disappointed, my oldest brother was still proud. It's amazing to me how at one time I convinced myself I couldn't give a shit what he thought, it's now his opinion that seems to matter more than anyone's. When I see him I see my dad. And I hope my folks would be proud of me.

My door is open and Curly walks, struts, through it. "Brothers on the way up. Thought I'd give you a warning."

I give him a weary thanks and squeeze my eyes shut when he sits beside me.

"So...what's our cover, man?"

I blink at him, barely comprehending. "C-cover?"

"What are we gonna say? Brumly? Some thugs at a bar? I can tell 'em the truth if you want me to."

"Real noble," I snort. "I'll think of somethin'," I tell him surely. "I can lie reaaaaal easy." I flash him the A-Okay sign. We'll all be good.

But there's a feeling in my gut, like someone's squeezing my insides. I hate lying to my brothers.

Before Curly can respond, Sodapop's gold head pops in.

And suddenly, I've got arms around me and he grabs me close. I suppress a wince as he jostles me on accident. "Oh, Jesus, Ponyboy..."

"I know," I say, feeling like shit. "I'm..." I blink my eyes shut a few times, wanting the fuzziness to stop. "Soda, you okay, Soda? You good?"

"I'm good," he responds, and it's all breathy like he's gonna cry.

Darry stands by the foot of my bed. The look on his face is unrecognizable, expressionless. He's either mad and internalizing or this is the calm before the storm. Neither one seems that great. But again, this is what I get for being around Curly Shepard. Darry just continues to eye me with a certain scrutiny.

"Well, you're in one piece."

Everyone, including Curly, bristles at his harsh tone of voice. "Aw, Dar, c'mon..." Soda jumps to my defense, as per usual. "He's, uh, he's—"

Darry won't have it and he spins suddenly to face me. His anger is palpable. I feel like I could reach out and grab it. "Glory, Pony! Do you know what it felt like to—to get a call at 2:30 am explainin' that your brother's in the hospital? The brother I didn't even know left the house?"

My surroundings are fuzzy and I drown in guilt. It's like a blast to the face and I feel terrible, remembering how I snuck out and forgot to even leave a note.

"Dar, I'm..." But I don't continue. I don't continue because my words sound garbled and Darry won't hear any of it anyway.

"You almost died, Ponyboy!"

"But I didn't!" Why doesn't he understand this? I'm okay!

It's probably the wrong choice of words, but that's not something my jumbled brain can afford to stop and think about. The looks on my brothers' faces are similar. Curly just looks like he's gonna burst out laughing. I wish he weren't here because getting bitched out by your brother in front of your friends isn't how I intended this night to go.

I smile, remembering that I didn't intend to get a knife thrown at me either but that's just how it happened.

Darry mistakes the smile as something else. I can see it in the vein in his neck, the way it quivers and throbs when he's angry and/or worried. "Do you even understand that? Can you imagine hearing that your brother's in surgery and may not make it out?"

"No, Darry, no, I can't," I mumble as I rest my head limply against the bleach white pillows. "But I ain't too sure why you're..." I yawn. "Why you're yellin' at me. It ain't like I wanted to get stabbed."

I giggle as Soda and Curly both groan. I wonder what I said wrong this time because the words sound like truth to me.

"Okay, okay." Soda stands, moving Darry back. "Darry, don't yell at him yet. He don't understand."

"They got him on morphine," Curly explains. "It's a damn miracle he's even able to talk right now."

I breathe in, content. I'm tired but I'm okay. It'll all be okay when I wake up.

The light that stabs my eyes when I finally manage to open them is unpleasant, and already the desire to go back to the sereneness of unconsciousness is tempting. There's a part of me desperate to close my eyes again and start all over later.

My nose feels irritated and dry, my eyes blurred and I want to scream. My chest down is numb and I think there's air being blown into me.

The telltale signs of a hospital. Oh, yeah. Awareness comes rushing back.

As if the tan and white, mucky wallpaper and the cacophony of beeps didn't give me enough of a clue. I wonder what I did to wind up here. What I did to deserve the loopy, but more lucid feeling I have.

"Shit..." The first words I say when I wake up this time. Maybe I should have thought about something far more poetic, a recitation of "Soliloquy of the Solipsist" by Sylvia Plath to my bed side manner, which is frighteningly bare, I notice as I refocus my eyes—something that proves to be a mega bitch. Sylvia Plath would have been good, something my fourteen year old self really would have admired. I always loved being dramatic.

I breathe through the pain, and even though I like having my memories and awareness in tact, I crave the numbness the drug brought and I hope I don't grow to have some weird sort of dependence on it.

A figure approaches and I don't bother to see who it is. I can tell simply by the sounds of the footsteps it's Sodapop. I've listened to that sound for years. Darry's are heavier, weary and worn from working all the time. Soda's are easy going, lighter, and his sneakers slap on the floor in rhythm.

I turn and face him, mouth dropping open and I can't find the energy to shut it. "Hey..."

"Hey, kid." He looks at me. "You good?"

"I'm good."

"You don't look it."

I breathe a slight laugh through my nose. "It must run in the family."

Sodapop grins, a real smile, and I feel better knowing he's not as mad at me. "You ain't mad?"

"I ain't mad. I'm worried is all. Darry too."

"You ain't gotta be. I'm alright now."

"Yeah, just a vital organ knicked. A small blood transfusion. No biggie." His face turns hard for a split second, and I feel a little taken aback by his anger. The cannula in my nose itches. "You can't—you can't just keep...goin' all self-destruct mode on me, ya know? We need ya here for a long time."

"Yeah." Because it was all my fault. I shouldn't even be surprised. I knew it was gonna be my fault. Everything is. "It ain't like I chose to get stabbed. Weapons flyin' through the air is real avoidable."

"Funny," Soda snorts. "You said the same thing to Darry last night when he was gettin' on your case about it."

I grimace as I finally gather the energy to move myself up. "God...what else did I say?" I don't allow myself to panic yet.

"Nothin' much. It was mostly Darry. He's a little upset right now."

"Understandably. I remember him chewin' my ass out loud enough for the whole hospital staff to hear. I'm surprised the neighborhood dogs didn't start barking."

"Ah, you know him. That's his thing. Yells instead of talkin'." He smiles again, all pearly white teeth. "You gonna explain to me what happened?"

I think about it before I spill it all. I tell him everything and hope Curly doesn't kick my ass later for not sparing any of the gritty details.

I never should have listened to his whole "I wanna go on one last adventure before my number's up" speech. I never should have gone with him.

But I did. And I can complain all I want, but at this point there's just nothing I can do. What happened happened. And I can't change that.

My brothers don't know where I am. I don't really know where I am. Some dive bar I'd never been to.

There's a blade sticking out of my stomach like a turkey thermometer, blood tendrils flooding out, forcing me to lie on my back. But at least gravity is working with me—at least mother nature is cutting me some slack here. I guess I can look on the bright side.

I can hear softly the sounds of "While My Guitar Gently Weeps" in the background, maybe coming from inside the bar (though unlikely), but maybe coming from inside my head. I don't like the Beatles but at this moment it's the greatest thing I've ever heard, and I want to weep right alongside George Harrison's guitar because I don't think I'm getting out of this one.

Curly's running around like a loon, freaking out. Arms flailing as he struggles to regain control over the situation. It'd be funny if I wasn't so scared. He's a thug and a dumb-ass and did get me involved in this but I know where his loyalties lie and I don't think he'd leave me here for dead.

I can't pretend I ain't close to crying, which is something in the back of my mind as I notice a little bit of leaking from my eyes. Or maybe it's just raining. It's so blurry and it's sad so really, it could be either one.

I wish I could scream, get someone's attention, someone who isn't Curly, but I don't.

It sounds shitty but, overall, I'm just sad it's not heroic. What a horrible, anticlimactic death for my fucking horrible, climactic life. If anything, I wish I died in the church fire at Windrixville because then at least my death would have had purpose. I wouldn't die because of my idiot fucking friend.

I try to slide a little on my back, wondering if I should just take the damn knife out of me, because it fucking burns white-hot and it's like it's scraping against my bones, this unfamiliar hunk of metal inside me. My blood is hot but I'm so cold.

I want Two-Bit here to crack a joke, Steve to bitch at me. I want Soda to comfort me and Darry to strongly reassure me that it'll be okay because at this point I know it won't be. What I wouldn't give to feel my mother's touch just once more or smell the scent of my dad—the scent of musk and the leather interior of his car. The way he used to pick up my mother and all of us and swing us around the kitchen whenever he got off work.

If I go to heaven maybe I'll get to see them again. I'll get to look at my father who Darry mirrors, or my mother in all her beauty, the way she was always smiling like Sodapop does, but I don't think Soda'll ever smile again after this is all over and that's something I just can't bear to think about that.

I can't remember anything. I hear Darry's bark to stay awake but it's soft and fading. I think of Johnny and Dally. Curly. Cherry Valance. I don't see my life flashing before my eyes, instead crystal clear faces—mirages of various people in my life and how they'll react when they get the news. I hope they won't be mad at me. I can't stand to let people I care about down.

But at the end of the day, this is probably better. Maybe Darry and Sodapop can finally get a life with me gone.

It's that thought that lets me rest. It's not good but I'll take it.

I close my eyes but Curly slaps my face. "Oh, God." I exhale raggedly. "What the fuck, man?"

"Holy shit, why the fuck did you move? I almost had that guy and you took the knife for that fucker!" "The guy" he's talking about is an ex-gang member that we ran into at the bar. A dumb fight led to a dumb injury.

"I didn't mean to..." I motion weakly to my stomach, steadily dripping black red blood.

For a second, the ghost of a smile disappears and is replaced by a worrisome stare. "Hospital it is, then."

"You stabbed me," I nearly sob. "I'm gonna die and you stabbed me."

"You ain't gonna die, asshole," he says impatiently. "Come on, let's get you up, huh?"

I breathe in and out and count to ten, and then I'm calm. I'm not bleeding too much and if I go to a hospital they'll patch me up fine. Overly confident, I grip the wall and hoist myself up and a wave of vertigo hits.

"Jesus Christ, Curtis. Why you gotta do that?"

"Do what?" I snap, holding my stomach and gripping the wall. "Why do I gotta get stabbed? That's a good question, man."

"No! Why do you gotta just get up like you didn't just get a fuckin' knife thrown at you? Just sit your ass down and I'll carry you. Shit, man!"

He wraps a steady arm over my shoulders and slowly but surely, we take the walk to his car—a junky old piece of shit—and settles me in there. He stuffs a cigarette in my mouth and lights it for me. I wish I could follow the smoke as it wisps away in front of me. Before shutting the door, Curly leaves me laying there limply in the front seat and he rummages through his back seat. He finds a long towel and shoves it against the wound in a half-assed attempt to staunch the blood.

"Shit, do we take this fuckin' thing out or leave it in?"

"I don't know, man! I ain't a goddamn knife expert." I remember the way Bob Sheldon died, almost instantly, and Johnny was right when he said there was a lot of blood in people. I hope I'm lucky enough to not have their fates.

"Come on. We're goin'."

We drive in silence save for Curly's barks of "Open your goddamn eyes, Ponyboy!" even though I didn't realize I had closed them. I laugh at the absurdity of this situation and eventually Curly joins me.

Curly drags me in, towel and all, yelling things, "Hurt kid! Hurt kid!" and "We gotta get him help!" but I guess I'm not grievously wounded enough because they make me wait.

"Let's just go, Shepard. Let's just go."

"Let's just go? Have you lost your fuckin' marbles?"

"Let's go. I'll be fine. I don't want my brothers to worry. I'll...I'll be fine."

"Jesus Christ. No. We're stayin' here."

I moan. "Ohhhhhh." I grimace. "My brothers are gonna kill me."

"I think that's the least of your worries. Besides, there won't be nothin' to kill if we don't stay here. You're so fuckin' stubborn, man."