Even without looking around I knew the car had gone. Somewhere way at the back, my brain had registered the screeching tires, same as it registered the pounding footsteps as late night pedestrians were drawn to the light and the noise of the fire, adding to it with their shouts and whoops.

Not one of them was as close as I was, though. Maybe someone yelled at me not to, but I made a short run towards the door. The sight of the flames made me afraid; deep inside, a tight knot of fear made me want to curl up in a ball, somewhere else, somewhere safe. But it was the heat and the smoke that forced me back. The heat of the smoke, it rolled up and over me, pushed me, blanketed my mouth and nose. I sat down hard on the scuffed gravel of the lot, unable to look away, although my eyes stung and teared up.

Sirens.

Shouting.

Hands on my shoulders, pulling me backwards.

I blinked, seeing uniforms, flashing lights; fire-fighters and cops trying to make sense of the nonsensical. They were herding bystanders, making lines that twisted and moved as soon as they turned their backs.

"Hey!" The hands were connected to a big old guy, the brim of his helmet shadowing his eyes. "Honey, you burned? You okay?" He moved my chin, looking at my face, reaching for my arms, pulling them out in front of me so he could inspect them.

"I'm okay." I stuttered. "But, Nate. Inside. Nate's inside."

The guy's eyes went over my shoulder and his expression flickered. He stood up, waving for attention. "Joe! Civilian reported inside."

Another man looked over, from where a whole gang of 'em was spraying jets of water, passed the shout on. Then the crowd of uniforms parted, for a stretcher being carried through, towards an ambulance that had pulled up behind the fire trucks.

The lot was as full of vehicles as if it was a Saturday night. I'd have been run off my feet, if they'd all been wanting full orders, the thought crossed my mind, absurd and unwanted.

"Hey, honey? This who you said was in there? Or we looking for someone else?" The fire-fighter pulled me to my feet, pulled me to the ambulance, showed me Nate on the stretcher. Not burned up, but hard to recognize because of the blood covering half his face, matting his hair. His eyes were closed. The stretcher had come from around the back of the building. Maybe Nate had made it to the back alley?

I nodded. The fire-fighter asked me other questions, but I wasn't sure what he wanted, what I could say that would make any difference to the situation. When he passed me to another set of hands I was grateful. But then I was sitting in the back of a cruiser and it was a different set of questions. Not 'Is anyone else in there?', but 'Who did this? Did you see who did this? What happened? What did you see?'

I shook my head. Told the cop I knew nothing. Burst into tears and asked to go home.

What I got was a ride to the station, because some busybody in the crowd had told the cops they'd seen a car full of hoods leaving the scene and I must've seen it too, because I was right there, wasn't I?

xxXxx

I sat, shivering, in the room where they'd left me. My hair smelled of smoke, my uniform was all streaked where I'd rubbed my hands on it. I kept hearing the whoomp, hearing the crackling of the flames, seeing the blood all over Nate's face. I rubbed my palms on my thighs again.

The cop came back in. This one hadn't been at The Dingo, he was more of an indoor-question guy, looking like he drove a desk full time, not a police car.

"Okay, I think we're about done, but we need to make a call about you being here," he said, not unkindly. None of what he'd said had been unkind. He'd brought me a soda before the questions started, asked if I was okay. I'd wondered if he had kids, maybe a daughter my age. I still hadn't told him anything. Yes, a car, and someone threw something—they knew that much already, no point in pretending—but, No, I didn't know the make or model, it was dark and I was busy cleaning up. I said I didn't know anything about cars anyway, maybe it was a soft top, I wasn't sure—it wasn't and I was—and No, I hadn't seen the driver. Or who threw the 'something'.

I'd told him basically nothing, so what the hell was his deal with keeping me now?

"Am...am I arrested?" I blinked hard.

"No, sweetie, you ain't. But we ain't just gonna let ya wander off into the night. It's nigh on three in the morning. You need a responsible adult to come get ya."

I swallowed. "My mom's out of town." I bit back the urge to tell him I was freaking sixteen years old and perfectly capable of looking after myself. I'd considered lying wholesale about my name, my age, everything, but figured that would only get me in more trouble down the line, since they already knew where I worked so they could find out who I was. And I was just an innocent witness, after all. But he didn't seem to have recognized 'Coleman' and maybe he didn't care anyhow. Stella had been real careful. As far as I knew she hadn't been arrested once in all the time we'd lived here. She liked a professional mark, someone with a respectable job, someone who had something to lose, if they ever thought about reporting her. 'Under the radar' suited her, as far as the authorities went. There was no way in hell I was having this cop call her, no matter how kind he was.

He wasn't letting it go, though. "Well, who'd she leave in charge?"

Was that what people—parents—were supposed to do? Nominate someone 'responsible' to look after their kids? Shit. Of course they were. I knew that. Seen it in action, hadn't I?

"...Over twenty one and not on the most wanted list would be good," prompted the cop, before I could volunteer anything. He was trying to be funny, but it confirmed my thoughts.

"Oh." I smiled. "Yeah. There's someone."

xxXxx

Of course I knew the number. It was the only number I knew by heart for years, back when Pony was my only friend. Who the hell else did I have to call, back then? Not that I ever needed to use it. Still, I knew it, like I knew everything about that house. Knew it in the same way that I knew Mrs. C. always used Tide but would buy Dreft if it was on sale: I'd hoarded every little thing about that house. Details for my imaginary world, when it was my phone number that I would pretend to give out airily, telling imaginary acquaintances not to call at dinner time because 'Mom' liked us all around the table. Probably the only time I saw Mrs. C. hacked off with Darry was when he leaped up from the table to take a call, mid-meal.

"It's a g-irl," Soda had singsonged, delightedly. It probably was, I thought now, remembering how Darry had scowled and turned away, hunching over the handset and whispering.

He was scowling a bit now, as well, but I could hardly blame him since I'd be pretty pissed myself to be woken up and called to the cop station in the middle of the night.

"My God, Lainey," he said, when we got to his truck. "Are you sure you're okay?" The cop had told him I didn't need medical attention, but Darry didn't seem to believe him.

"Sure," I told him, easing into the passenger side, wiping at a mark on my pants leg. "Goddamn fuzz just didn't wanna taxi me home."

"Lainey!" He hadn't started the engine.

"Sorry they bothered ya. But it ain't like you hadda post bail," I chirped. "If you want gas money, I'll—" Shit, my purse was back at The Dingo. If there was anything left of it.

Flames.

Blood.

"Lainey." This time his voice was much quieter, so why it seemed more forceful, I had no clue.

I slid my eyes over to him, then back to my lap again. "I'm sorry," it came out as a whisper. "They wouldn't let me go, not without an adult. An' I couldn't call...Stella."

"It's okay." I misheard him, I thought. I only realized I was crying when he thrust a handkerchief in my hand. "It's okay, you don't have to explain." He started up the truck and backed out onto the street, leaving the station behind.

The handkerchief was soon smeared with grey, sooty streaks, possibly mascara, possibly the residue of the smoke. I wondered if I could get away with moving the rear view mirror, to see myself. I must look like shit, maybe that was why Darry was being so nice.

The truck idled at an intersection—no traffic to care whether he made the turn or not—where the choice was right to the neighborhood, or left for downtown. He stared to the right, chewed his lip, and then Darry took a breath, almost like he was working up the nerve to ask me, "Were you in the fire? The cop said the building's gone. Were you breathing the smoke?"

I shook my head. "I was outside. Though you wouldn't know it." I sniffed my shirt, my hands. When Darry stayed quiet, I sneaked a glance at him. His face was set, his whole jaw tight, and it hit me then that he'd probably been warned about the dangers of smoke inhalation after Pony was in the hospital. When Pony and Johnny were in the hospital. Which was left, for downtown. The direction he was not looking.

I didn't need to go to the hospital. But the other option suddenly seemed wrong, too.

"I'm supposed to be someplace," I told Darry. "I don't wanna go back to your house." Despite the flash of relief that flickered across his face, he opened his mouth to argue, but I plowed right on, "I don't want Pony to see me like this."

His eyes met mine then. And neither of us had to go into details. He didn't want Pony to see me like that, either. Nor smell the smoke on me. I finally understood that his attitude was never against me, personally, it was always for Ponyboy. If Mrs.C. had lived to see me do the things I did, behave the way I behaved, she'd have been the same about protecting the youngest Curtis from such a bad influence. Who would blame her?

I'd never put such a fierce, protective big brother in my fantasy world because it was outside the power of my imagination. But I saw him now.

"Where then?" Darry asked. "If you don't want to go home?"

I smiled and got him to drop me at the end of Tim's street.

Music was coming from the house still, although it was something slow, and the people on the porch and in the yard were mostly sitting or lying around, not dancing. I'd always liked the winding down part of parties, as it got to be morning. Sometimes it didn't even matter if you'd taken anything, the relaxed vibe was contagious enough.

One of the figures in the shadows was Lana. I knew she'd be cool enough to lend me some clothes, until I could get home again. I couldn't wait to ditch my Dingo uniform. She pushed up onto her feet as I walked across the front yard, stood above me on the porch steps, almost like she was blocking the way.

"The guys got Wes wasted," she said. "He passed out about an hour ago. I guess he thought you wasn't coming."

"There was—"

"We heard." Tim appeared, handed a bottle to Lana, sipped from one of his own, his arm draped across her shoulders, his body filling in the barrier across the step.

"I was at the station. The cops made me go."

"That so?" He sounded almost bored. But I'd seen him this cold, this apparently disinterested, before. I swallowed. Despite the music, it suddenly seemed very quiet.

"I never told 'em nothin'."

Tim sipped his beer, his eyes never leaving mine. "And what exactly would you have to 'not tell' 'em about?" He let go of Lana, moved down a step. Oh, hell. "Some horse-shit-covered hick dealer who thinks it's smart to move in on someone else's neighborhood?"

"No, I—"

He took a step forward every time I tried to speak and I took a step back.

"Some stupid little chick who thinks it's okay to piss off Tony Bianco, to make him think I got ideas to move into Tigers' turf?"

"No, I—" I looked desperately at Lana. Her face was completely expressionless.

Tim moved again and for a split second I thought he was going to hit me. I held my breath, but he just made a dismissive wave.

"Piss off and cry on your rodeo clown's shoulder. You're done here."

I walked.