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All of these lines across my face
Tell you the story of who I am
So many stories of where I've been
And how I got to where I am
But these stories don't mean anything
When you've got no one to tell them to
It's true...I was made for you

--Brandi Carlile

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3:33 pm

August 31, 1967

I stare blankly at the book Sodapop has brought me from the gift shop. The Sound and the Fury. "I can't read this," I announce tossing it to the ground.

Quietly, Soda picks the book up, setting it on my nightstand. His long fingers curl around the spine of the book, his knuckles white. I wince at my callousness, trying to amend it by saying, "I just can't concentrate right now."

Soda smiles, all forgiven. "Shoot, I can relate kiddo." He picks up his jacket, draping it over the recliner. He moves on to the magazines and newspapers, piling them into stacks. Coffee cups go into the trash, used utensils follow suit.

I raise an eyebrow, watching him. "Are you actually cleaning, Sodapop?"

Embarrassed, Soda rubs the back of his head, his hair sticking up in greasy spikes. "Well, yeah. They don't have maid service around here."

Giving Soda a wry glance, I pick a glass of water up from my nightstand. "Yeah, where's Darry when we need him?"

Soda guffaws loudly and tosses three more Pepsi cans in the trash. They ricochet against the side, an annoying banging noise that causes me to grit my teeth. I take a sip of water; I'd kill for a Pepsi but I don't think I'm going to get one anytime soon. Apparently, according to Darry, caffeine dehydrates. I can't wait until he stops hanging around with doctors.

Muffled voices begin to sound from outside the door. Someone laughs and Darry tells them to "shut it". There's a thump and then a low voice cursing.

"You okay with this?" Soda asks, sneaking a glance at me, an empty Pepsi frozen in mid-air ready to be dunked.

I nod, anxious. Get it over with. "Sure, Soda." Damn it. Damn it. The calming repetition from my time with Blonde and Freckle rears its ugly head and I cower inside. Like an animal at the zoo, I'm about to be on display, only I can't bare my fangs and charge the glass. I don't have the energy to fight.

There's a tap on the door and then Darry enters, leading the pack. Two-Bit follows looking nervous which is a rare feat for him. Steve's face is a mask; he glances over at me, expressionless.

"Well, look what the cat dragged in," Soda drawls, slapping hands with Steve. Darry has his hands in his pockets, staring at the ground. He's still in the same pants he was wearing when they brought me in and I make a mental note to tell him to go home and change, not to mention shower.

I manage a weak wave and rasp out a hello. "Hey guys." The throbbing in my head begins.

They hang back for a second until Darry slams the door shut behind us. It's like a gunshot; we jump and then take off.

"Hey Pone!" Two-Bit exclaims, grinning from ear-to-ear. "Long time no see." He shoves past Darry, clapping his shoulder on the way. When he reaches me, Two-Bit's goofy grin falls away. He simultaneously hugs me and ruffles my hair at the same time. "God kid, I'm glad you're in one piece," he whispers in my ear.

His frankness startles me. "So am I." I whisper back as he pulls away.

Steve takes the calmer route, nodding at me from across the room. He shifts his weight, dropping his eyes and as my palms begin to sweat I know why he's nervous. We didn't exactly leave each other on the best of terms.

My head aches; I press a hand to my temple. Damn it. Damn it. Damn it. Goddamnit.

Two-Bit rocks on his heels, trying to appear cool and unruffled. "You oughta see the press and fuzz outside, kid. It's like a circus."

"Swell," I say softly. I've had enough publicity to last me a lifetime.

"How you feelin' kid?" Steve finally speaks up. He's come straight from the DX, grease caking his hands, a scent of diesel and cigarettes. I smile wistfully.

"I've been better," I say. Out of the corner of my eye I feel Darry's gaze boring a hole into me. "And I'll be even better when I'm out of here."

"Pony…" Darry warns.

Two-Bit lifts an eyebrow. "Aw, shoot Dar, go easy on the kid. I just know he's ready to have a wheelchair race."

Soda snaps his fingers, pointing at Darry, a triumphant gleam in his eyes. "I told you so!"

They begin to mock argue. Soda laughs again as Two-Bit enlightens Darry that a hospital is really like an amusement park; all scares but no real threat. Darry's not amused; I can see his eyes rolling and his brain thinking about all the times I've been in here and not liking the comparison.

I just watch, letting the familiarity soak in. My mouth twists up into a half-smile. It suddenly fades as I give a jerk. "Oh!" I utter. Confused, I rub my temple again. The unwelcome headache has come on fast and painful. I shoot a glance at my oldest brother. "Darry…"

Darry knows.

He always knows, no matter how many times I've doubted him before. "I'll get you some aspirin." He leaves the room before I can thank him, the door shutting quietly.

Soda has gone chalk white. He leans into Steve. "Darry said this wasn't a good idea." They begin to talk in hushed tones.

"Soda," I say, sticking my arm out, trying to get his attention. "It's fine. Really."

Beside me, Two-Bit sinks down into the recliner. He toys with an invisible string on his jeans. "Pone, guess what?"

"What?" I ask distractedly, my eyes still on Soda.

"I got a job."

"Well, that's great that you – wait, what?"

Then to their surprise, I laugh aloud. It comes up from my stomach and escapes my lips like bubbles. It's freeing to laugh and I let loose, giggling like I would when Soda and Darry would launch their tickle war. "Liar," I tell him, still laughing, still holding my guts.

Two-Bit smiles, his grey eyes twinkling with relief. "Yeah, but it made you laugh right?"

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4:09 pm

August 31, 1967

Darry and Soda have been called away by the doctor, leaving me with Two-Bit and Steve as babysitters. The poker hand I've been dealt is long forgotten. "I hope everything's ok." I eye the door with apprehension, anticipating the doctor tumbling in with a needle.

"It's fine. Paperwork bullshit." Two-Bit kicks back in the recliner, his shoes on the edge of my bed. "So, did we tell you how we got hauled in to the station when you were gone?"

"Really? You bring that up? Now?" Steve asks, his voice tinged with disgust. He slaps the cards Two-Bit has dealt him on the table. They slide off, plunging to the floor. Seeing that Steve had a full house, Steve and I wince.

Numb, I shake my head. "What happened?" It's no surprise I haven't heard about this.

With Darry it's like a stab in the back, finding out what he keeps from me; with Two-Bit a slap in the face with his frankness.

Two-Bit jerks a thumb toward Steve. "Well, you know big mouth over here—"

"Can it, Two-Bit," Steve snaps. His eyes move to mine. "Let's just say you…" he pauses and amends this. "…the argument we had…it got me into some trouble with the fuzz."

I pale, Steve's words eerily reminiscent of my earlier hallucination.

You got me into some trouble with the fuzz."

"Did I?" I fight a grin. "Maybe that'll teach you to flap that big mouth of yours."

Steve steps in a puddle of water as he circles the room; his foot comes away dry. "Keep talking kid, I'll leave you here."

Frowning, I stare at his dry shoe and then look up at him. "No - don't go. I don't want to be here alone."

Steve suddenly has a smoke in his hand. "Nobody wants that Ponyboy…"

Steve sees my reaction and backtracks; his hand paused above another deck of cards. "Christ, Ponyboy. I was only kidding."

"But I did right?" I protest. "They thought you did…something…"

Steve shoots Two-Bit an angry glare. "Yeah, they did." His voice softens. "But it's not your fault, kid." He flips a card between his fingers and then palms it inconspicuously. I can tell Soda's been teaching him how to cheat. Except Soda does it better; Steve's too obvious, flaunting his skill. With Soda he keeps it on lockdown.

"So what else happened when I was gone?" I ask.

"Pony," Two-Bit says, reaching up to grip by forearm. His grey eyes are earnest. "You ain't missed nothing."

I sigh and swing my legs over the edge of the bed. My feet touch the cool tile and I balance myself as I stand up. The throbbing in my head has stopped courtesy of the aspirin. "Can I have a smoke?"

Again, Two-Bit and Steve lock eyes, only this time it's not angry. "Oh, I don't know…" Two-Bit begins, his eyes ticking like a metronome as he watches my every move. "I'm not even sure you're supposed to be out of bed."

"Just give me one," I order. "Please. I'll even crack a window."

We're on the sixth floor of Saint Fran's, my window overlooking the downtown street of Sand Springs. I haven't even been back to Tulsa yet. Leaning forward, I try to throw the window open. But it catches, sticky because of the humidity. Irate, I struggle for a moment. It still won't give and then abruptly I slam my hands against the glass. It shakes against the pressure.

"Pone…" Two-Bit half-rises to help me out, his faced scrunched up.

"I got it." Managing all my strength, I shove my weight into it. The window relinquishes its fight, jolting upward. Fresh air drifts inside the room, the sounds and sirens from the street adding to the chaos.

Turning back to them, I stick my arm out. Then, I see Steve staring at my arms and hastily fold them across my chest. "C'mon," I croak. "Don't be a jerk your whole life."

Steve groans loudly; something between annoyance and indulgence. "Fine. You choke your ass off, see if I help you." Steve slaps his pockets for his smokes. Finding them, he takes a single stick out, holding it up in front of me. "One. That's all. No whining."

He lights it for me. I watch the end glow a brilliant red and then I take a drag. It hurts my throat but I greedily drink it in. The smoke warms me inside, as I focus on the pain, goading it on, telling it I can resist.

"Man, we're gonna catch hell," Two-Bit moans.

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7:49 pm

August 31, 1967

She's drinking coffee from a tin thermos, a cigarette dangling from her right hand. "Do you know Jessup?" I ask, coming up from behind her. The hospital lounge is deserted, the perfect place for a conversation.

"Jesus Christ!" she hisses, jerking, the thermos tilts dangerously in her hand. Lisa Paillard eyes me. "Hello to you too."

Something about our last conversation has been bothering me. Pony's intense questioning about why she cares has got to me more than I care to admit. Lisa had winced when I mentioned Jessup's name; like Soda does now. The Bethlehem Case shouldn't bother me, but the similarities are too striking to not cast doubt.

Plus, Two-Bit and Steve's visit has left me feeling helpless, unknowing as to how to help my youngest brother. Clearly uncomfortable with the visit, Pony had smiled and chatted but there was something swimming underneath him. A dark and tired something; a storm cloud at the end of a day that no one can run from, because no matter what it's going to release.

Soda had met me an hour ago, hands out, a panicked expression ripping across his face. "Ponyboy was smoking," he blurted. Soda proceeded to take all the blame; it was too soon, the guys shouldn't have come, Pony was out of it. I managed a lame admonishment and ducked out.

Now, I figure grilling Lisa will help get me back in control, but one look at her face fells me.

Lisa tosses her cigarette butt into her thermos, a sizzle echoing up from it as the ember is distinguished. "Sure, I know him." Her voice is husky, personal. Shit, I think, my stomach sinking. She's his wife, or girlfriend or-

"I'm his sister-in-law," she replies. "Why? You worried he's going to mess this case up too?"

It's the 'too' that gets me. I take a step towards her. "Are you?"

Surprise flits across her face and then she closes down. "What do you want?" Capping the thermos, she stuffs it back into the green bag slung around her shoulder.

I chuckle, but it's not friendly. "Just tell me if I should be worried."

"You trusted W– Jessup before this right?" she asks. "So, why should it matter?" Lisa leans against the counter, sighing. "You made me waste my last smoke."

I blink and then unwillingly chuckle. "He's handling my brother's case. I think that's a perfectly good reason why it matters." Jessup couldn't screw with this, with Pony.

Frustrated, Lisa begins to chew on a nail. I want to pull it away, like I do with Ponyboy, but I don't. Somehow I don't think she'd like it. "Look…William - goddamn it, I mean Jessup, just gets too close sometimes. All he sees is the kid but not the case."

She brushes her messy hair from her face, it looks like whipped straw after being baled. "He was careless on the Bethlehem case. I hated him for it. I knew that kid, I helped him when we found him."

"What happened?"

"Jessup found Robert Lewis in the alley with Chris Bethlehem. Lewis had a gun in his hand, but as soon as the cops came he dropped it and claimed he had found Chris. That he was trying to help him. Bastard," Lisa mutters bitterly. "Goddamn bastard."

"Jessup blew it," she continues, when I say nothing. "It was all he had as evidence and he still put Lewis on the stand."

"But Chris – didn't he tell them what happened?" My fists have been balled up this entire time, but listening to this story sickens me. They release weakly. Instead of being angry, I'm at a loss.

Her hands fly up. "Sure he did. But Chris was scared; he got his story muddled up. Hell, his head was muddled up. So, after a lengthy deliberation the judge threw it out. Claims the charges were based too much on circumstantial evidence."

Lisa shrugs, gesturing helplessly. "Jessup just wanted to get the trial over with for Chris, get him better. He was just stupid, God bless him - he meant well, but he was foolish."

Not knowing if I'm more or less relieved after hearing this story, I place my hand on the wall for support. "Jesus. That's a lot to take in."

Lisa remains rigid, her eyes grim. "But that's not what you wanted to know about is it?"

"Lisa—" I try to tell her to stop, to not say anything more about what has happened, because I already know. A few hours after the article on Chris Bethlehem had come out I had dug up the newspaper archives. I told Soda I was going to get a change of clothes at the house, but had instead gone down to the Public Library.

There, in the musty Records Room I had read on tattered microfilm about how Chris Bethlehem had stolen his daddy's shotgun, locked himself in the bathroom and canceled his birth certificate.

Amazingly, she doesn't. She just cocks her head and smiles sadly. "Jesus Christ, if Connie heard this, my sister would kill me. She'd just kill me." I manage a gruff chuckle, but it's forced.

"I don't know what to do," I say, desperation entering my voice, my head screaming out to stand tall, shut up. "I don't know what he's thinking."

Then, very softly, stealthily, Lisa tiptoes closer to me and brushes my arm. I let it fall from its bracing position against the fall. She grips my bicep, her eyes fierce. "He is not just scared. He is so much more."

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