He was back, with Ponyboy this time. Ponyboy wore the look of tightly concealed anger, a sharp contrast to his usual once-upon-a-time expression. It could only mean one thing: they had run into one of Johnny's parents. But this wasn't the time for this; that could come later. Right now, I had a mission, a purpose.
"Sorry, kid, for hitting you to hard. You alright?" Ponyboy nods in response, allowing some of the anger to seep out his pours.
"It's alright. You saved my life. Thank you." He says in response, his voice has a slight rasp to it that it didn't have before.
"No problem." I allow a smile to grace my face. I shrug it off, continue towards my goal.
"Two-Bit, your blade. You have your blade right?"
"Of course I have my blade, I always have my blade. You take good care of her, you hear?" Two-Bit hands me his prized possession, a switch blade with a black handle; a real beauty. I run my finger along the outside of the handle.
"Guys," I flick open the blade, "with this knife, we will beat those dang Socs in the rumble. We're goin' to teach 'em a lesson, goin' to show 'em who is the toughest of the toughest." And I meant it. It was the only way to get those scums back for what they've done to Johnnycakes.
The room is taut with silence, with all the words that remained unspoken, with all the pain that was left out in the open to rot in the sun. I'm not all that good with words—when you live on the street, you don't have a need for school things like words—or people; but I know how to get my point across.
"You sure?" Ponyboy was the first one to speak, which was a surprise to me; the kid always has a terror in his eyes when he's around me; he thinks he hides it, but he can't. I open my mouth to reply, but Two-Bit cuts me off.
"Of course he's sure. He's Dallas Winston. And Dallas always gets what he wants." What was with Two-Bit? Where was his laughing and joking manner, why had the ease been replaced by tired lines rimming his eyes and grimaces around his mouth? What was with Ponyboy, where had that quiet innocence that had always been present in his face, gone?
We talked a little more, but the nurse, a new one, Cheryl, appeared, and shoed them off. It must be because of Johnny; was he really all that bad? There was only one way to find out.
As seven thirty crept up on the hospital, blanketing the halls with the dimness of night, I grabbed Two-Bit's blade, stowing it in the pocket of the standard-issue sweats I had been given. The nurse had stepped out for a smoke—despite her demands for me to quit at it—so I was free to ease down the hall into the critical case section, and to let the knife talk my way into Johnny Cade's room. 318.
His eyes are closed, tubes are coming from his nostrils and his arms, binding him to this earth, his mouth hanging open and a small snore escaping out of it.
"Johnny." I choke out a whisper. It's my fault this small body is so badly burnt up, my fault that there are scars that will never heal. Without thinking, my fingers reach out and wrap around an outstretched hand.
I stay like that all night.