A/N: This chapter was finalized on 04/30/2021, so make sure to read it again before moving on to chapter 2!

…..0…..

CHAPTER 1

October 24, 1954

A 3-year-old Ponyboy Curtis giggles as he scampers away from his mother, Jean Curtis, who is covering her crinkled eyes with gloved hands, smiling as she slowly and deliberately counts aloud for her young son to hear.

The little boy runs as fast as his tiny feet can carry him, hearing the crunch of autumn leaves crumple and break underneath his footfalls. He hurriedly looks around, unsure of which spot will keep him fully concealed.

He begins to panic as he realizes he's running out of time, and if he can't find someplace to hide, and quick, his mother will find him.

And the game will be over.

He scans the area again.

Ponyboy is suddenly struck by a brilliant idea and has to clamp his fingers over his mouth, so as to not raise his mother's suspicions with his sudden glee. He starts forward, glancing over his shoulder, a toothy grin forming on his chubby face.

He bolts.

Rosy cheeks puffing out with exertion, Ponyboy soon reaches his destination, and can't help but feel butterflies in his stomach as he appraises the sight before him.

Unsure of himself, he almost backs out of his plan, until Ponyboy remembers something his father once told him to do if he ever got nervous.

He takes in a deep breath, and then exhales slowly.

Doing it once calms his nerves.

Ponyboy does it again.

Doing it twice makes him feel brave.

It takes a considerable amount of effort, but soon enough, Ponyboy's sitting on a branch in the tallest tree in the whole park, swinging his tiny legs back-and-forth, concealed by the colorful foliage.

Looking up, the child can't help but be mesmerized by the warm colors bleeding into the night sky, reds and yellows and purples swirling together. The sun is slowly setting, partially visible from behind the neighboring houses across the street. The moon rests high above the clouds, shining with the twinkling stars.

When Ponyboy thinks of the word 'beautiful,' a few images flash in his mind instantaneously. His mother with her auburn curls dancing in the wind, the fireflies he and his brothers catch during the summertime, the golden rings that adorn his father's fingers. And this. Always this.

As a breeze passes through the fall air, ruffling his knit scarf, Ponyboy wonders, for just one second, what it would be like to live in the sky. He then shakes away the thought. If he did that, he'd never be able to see his family again. No, Ponyboy doesn't want to live in the sky.

Eventually, Jean Curtis opens her eyes and begins seeking her youngest child. Soon, unable to find the boy, the mother becomes frantic in her search. Distressed cries of his name reach the boy up in the tree, and increasingly awash with guilt, the boy reveals himself, calling out to his mother.

She lets out a gasp.

Ponyboy shakily descends, not understanding why it feels harder going down than it did climbing up. Jean calls out to her son as she dashes towards the tree, fervently telling him to stay where he is. Listening to his mother, he goes to sit down.

Unfortunately, his foot slips, and with an alarmed yelp, Ponyboy is suddenly plunging towards the earth.

His mother lets out a horrified scream, sprinting across the field.

Ponyboy feels like he's flying, but he knows he's really falling. His arms and legs flail, hoping to catch onto something, but he feels nothing but air. Terrified, he hopes it doesn't hurt too bad when he hits the ground.

The air is knocked out of Jean as she collides with her son, arms wrapping like steel around the wheezing child as she skids to a stop against the ground.

Relief is all but tangible on Jean Curtis' face as she rocks her son, murmuring words of comfort, reassuring both Ponyboy and herself in the process. The little boy hugs his mother back tightly, blubbering apologies as tears run down his cheeks.

His mother wipes each one away.

And he feels safe.

…..0…..

Across the street, a man is standing underneath a streetlamp, staring right at the pair.

His eyes linger on the boy.

Moments pass before the man walks briskly down the sidewalk.

…..0…..

February 17, 1966

The cold, frigid air feels like needles piercing my skin as my feet pound against the pavement. Howling laughter echoes down the alley, sending a chill up my spine that threatens to paralyze me all together. I force my heavy limbs to keep moving as thundering footfalls rumble behind me.

…..0…..

My day had actually been going pretty well so far, all things considered. I got a B+ on my chemistry quiz, a subject I've had my share of struggles with, so I was satisfied with my results. Darry would be pleased too- he'd spent the past week helping me go over the material.

"Just do your best, kiddo. You've been studyin' like crazy. Ain't no way you're gonna get a bad grade come Thursday."

A year ago, I might've cracked under the pressure of my brother's words, no doubt assuming he expected perfection and nothing less. But nowadays, me and Darry were understanding each other better, learning from the past.

I'd come to understand that he doesn't expect A's on my report cards for A's sakes, but because he believes I'm capable enough to get them. It's his way of caring, how he's always cared- never allowing me to waste my potential, in school or otherwise- having confidence in me even when I don't.

He wants more for me than what Tulsa, Oklahoma has to offer, more than a life of being defined by our social class.

When our parents passed away, my brother didn't hesitate before giving up his college football dreams and becoming a parent, all in one devastating night. And he did it for us, just so we could keep together what little family we had left. I used to think he did it because he'd felt obligated to- that his hands had simply been tied.

But he loves us, and that's why he did it, and that's the simplest thing about it.

I'd been so wrong before. The thought of Darry being hard and unfeeling couldn't be further from the truth. It was exactly because Darry felt so much that he did what he did- the reason he pushes me to do anything I set my mind to.

Nowadays, I no longer see glaring eyes ready to berate my failures. Instead, I see fulfilled eyes searching for my achievements.

In return, it seems as though Darry is looser around the edges. We joke around now, in a way that only him and Soda had been able to before. He's also become one of my closest confidants, aside from the middle Curtis brother.

I used to confide in Johnny Cade more than anyone- we could talk for hours about nothing and everything. He never brushed aside my problems, however big or small- despite having two parents at home who couldn't care less about him. Even when I said stuff that would've made other people look at me funny, he'd only ever nod along like he understood what I meant, even if he didn't. He never made me feel stupid for liking sunsets or reading, never made me feel like some dumb kid with too many dreams to count.

God, do I miss him, my best pal.

After he died, I didn't feel like talking much at all anymore.

Isolating myself from others- it wasn't intentional- or, maybe it was, just a little bit. That night at the drive-in, the church, the fire, Dally- breathing seemed easier when I didn't have to think about all that had happened. But everywhere I went seemed to be a reminder of the losses I'd experienced. At school, people stared and whispered amongst their friends. On the streets, greasers patted me on the back while socs sneered and shoved. At night, I dreamt of burnt flesh and screaming children.

No matter where I went, I couldn't escape the memories plaguing my mind.

Soda recognized this, more insightful than people ever give him credit for, and tried his best to give me a sense of normalcy at home, acting like his usual lively self tenfold.

Both my brothers had seen me spiral after the death of our parents, and Soda had just barely been able to keep me afloat then, but this time was different. I'd witnessed Johnny pass, his charred body immobile on a hospital bed, pain lacing his every last word. And not an hour later, Dally- the tuff, untouchable hood from New York, laid in a pool of his own blood, surrounded by the cops who'd gunned him down and his friends, who were seconds too late.

Despite Sodapop's efforts, behind his lighthearted exterior and too-wide smiles, I could see everything he was holding back- the sorrow, the desperation- the fear that I'd keep fading right in front of him until there was nothing left. And with the way things were going, I didn't think it'd be very long until I was nothing, a shell of who I'd been before.

Then, one day, Darry asked me if I wanted to go on a walk with him, just the two of us.

And for some reason, I'd said yes.

Maybe it's because I'd been anticipating this moment for a while. When Darry inevitably grew tired of my wallowing and decided to confront me- to call me selfish for not living just because people had died. As we passed Soda on our way out of the house, who waved us off with a trembling hand and a grin that fell flat, I'd certainly felt selfish.

Maybe I felt like I deserved what was coming to me, and that's why I went.

But no words were spoken between us as we ambled through the neighborhood. Despite my ever-growing apprehension as I snuck furtive glances towards my brother, the tension in my shoulders slowly faded as the minutes passed by. It'd been a quiet evening, with only the streetlamps lighting our path. Cold air filled my lungs, awakening my senses, clearing some of the fog encompassing my mind. By the time we'd circled back home twenty minutes later, I felt calm.

But before I could go up the steps leading to the front door, Darry put a hand on my shoulder. I'd tensed marginally, wondering if the other shoe was finally about to drop. But he just softly thanked me for coming with him, before turning away and entering the house, leaving me to stare after him, bewildered.

We went on more walks after that, and sometimes we'd talk about little, insignificant things to fill the silence. When we didn't, the air between us was comfortable.

I started visiting Soda at the DX again, something I'd stopped having the energy to do. On one particularly hot day, I'd asked Two-Bit if he wanted to grab a milkshake with me, after a solid stint of staying home with all of my free time. He was practically hootin' and hollerin' as we strolled to the diner. Steve's jaw nearly dropped to the floor when I threw a snarky remark at him for the first time in weeks, but he wasted no time snapping back at me. There was no real heat behind either of our words.

Me and Darry kept walking.

It was nice. We never really did things together, just us- even when our parents were alive. Back then, he was just a teenager who was too preoccupied with school, girls, and football to hang out with his kid brother, especially one so much younger than him. I'd had Soda, of course, who let me tag along with him wherever he went. Even then, I could probably count on both hands the amount of times Darry voluntarily did something with me, and wasn't being forced to by our mother.

But we were older now and they were gone and things change.

He seemed to genuinely enjoy our outings, having gotten into the routine of stopping by my room after dinner, and waiting for me to put my shoes on before we headed out. I assumed they helped him relax after long days at work. They certainly helped my mood- I didn't have to think if my feet were moving- probably the reason I like track so much.

I quickly grew accustomed to his presence as a consistent part of my day- the initial awkwardness at being alone with him ultimately fading away until none remained.

I also suspected this was his method of getting me to open up, as opposed to pushing and prodding. Not that I ever mentioned anything about the terrible week we'd all gone through. And he seemed to accept that, acting as a listening ear if I felt like offering something up- and keeping things companiable otherwise.

Maybe he'd figured I didn't need him to be a parent or therapist after everything- maybe he'd decided to just be my brother.

It was so tempting to get everything out in the open- just rip the band-aid clear off. Life had slowly but surely been returning back to normal, different from before but in a good way. It seemed as if my brothers were just waiting for me, to take that last step, to bridge the divide that still lingered between us.

So by the time the other shoe did drop, I was ready for it.

It was on a chilly day in October, a few days after Soda's seventeenth birthday, when Darry brought up the night he hit me and how sorry he was, for everything. It was an olive branch, being extended by my impenetrable brother through choked apologies and misty eyes.

And so, I spoke about Windrixville. It's as if the floodgates had been opened and I couldn't stop talking, even if I wanted to. By the time I'd finished, with mute sobs wracking my entire frame, he'd brought me to his chest and hugged me, so hard my ribs hurt.

And I cried for a long, long time.

We started doing a lot of things together after that, even if it was just going on trips to the grocery store or stopping by the bank.

Soda joked that he'd start getting jealous of our newfound closeness, but I could see the tremendous relief shining in his eyes when he looked at us that said otherwise.

This new development in our relationship was tentative, with neither one of us wanting to overstep our bounds. I worried that Darry would revert into his old ways if I said something too close to home, too reminiscent of the past- and that we'd end up fighting like before.

But I'd learnt things were different now, and that we'd both changed for the better.

Darry had been scrubbing dishes one night after dinner. It was just us in the dimly lit kitchen- Soda and Steve had gone out to play pool, and Two-Bit was eating at home with his kid sister while their mom picked up a shift at the Dingo.

We'd been discussing upcoming tests and track tryouts, making small talk to pass the time. Until- for whatever reason- I'd unthinkingly blurted out an insecurity that I'd never meant to share with anyone, especially Darry- that even with all my accomplishments, sometimes I got the feeling that I'd never being enough in his eyes.

His hands went still in the soapy water. Simultaneously, I'd frozen, like a dear in headlights, even as my mind raced. But as the seconds seemed to crawl by, I just stared at him, waiting. Despite how far we'd come, in that moment, there was still a tiny part of me that was expecting him to agree with me.

But he didn't. He'd looked at me for a long time, with icy blue eyes that I'd once thought to be cold. And then, speaking softly, unwaveringly, he'd said, "I'll never not be proud of you, Ponyboy."

Yeah, things were real good between me and Darry now.

…..0…..

As soon as school had let out, I'd headed over to the bookstore. I was supposed to go straight to the DX and catch a ride home with Soda and Steve. But they were only a few blocks apart, so I figured my little detour would go unnoticed.

However, with how vigilant my brothers have been lately, and the rest of the gang for that matter, I also figured it wouldn't hurt to put some hustle into my strides.

Strange things were happening in Tulsa.

About a month ago, a dead body had been found a few miles up north, down the road from a quaint, little farm. The name of the place only stuck out to me because I have vague memories of $1 tractor hayrides! with my family and occasionally participating in their annual Easter egg hunts as a kid. The last time I'd gone there, my parents were still alive, and I'd just started middle school.

Magnolia Pines.

…..0…..

The Tulsa Tribune

By Kevin Turner

Jan. 22. — Authorities were led to a shocking scene early this Saturday morning. Marshall Wilkes, a 21-year-old local college athlete and one of six children to parents Donna and Sam Wilkes, was found dead in a ditch, near a local dairy farm.

Medical aid was summoned, but there was nothing paramedics could do for Wilkes upon arrival to the scene. Sergeant Hawkins, one of the four officers investigating the sight, offered a statement about the gruesome tragedy.

"It's hard to say with exact certainty how the victim died. Given the circumstances in which the body was positioned and the injuries he [Wilkes] sustained, it's very plausible for a hit-and-run scenario to have occurred. Should that be the case, the Tulsa County Police Department won't quit until we find the negligent driver who took this young man's life. Of course, this is all just speculation at the moment, and we won't have further information until the autopsy results are released."

Peter Teppins (19), son of the owner of Magnolia Pines Farm, was shocked when he discovered Wilke's body near his home just before 6 o'clock this morning. He was questioned by police shortly after they responded to his 911 call, but Hawkins says Teppins has been ruled out as a suspect.

"My pa asked me to drive on over to the market. We ain't had the time to make deliveries in the past couple days, so I packed the truck up and headed the way I usually do. 'Bout half a mile down the road, I seen a flash of red out the corner of my eye. I pulled off to the side and got out, and 'bout nearly lost my breakfast.

I seen a lot of dead animals before, if we gotta put em' down cause they get hurt or sick, or if they just die of old age. But I ain't never seen a person like that. Not like that.

I hopped back into the truck and booked it back home. Called the cops. Whole family 'bout ran into the house to see what all the fuss was. Told em' what I seen. Mama told me to stay home after that, but I thought someone 'oughta be there when the police showed up. Pa said he'd come with me, so we both went back and waited."

We send our condolences to the Wilkes family, and hope to have an update on the case soon.

…..0…..

Once the story about Marshall had spread around town, the majority of people wrote it off as an unfortunate accident, and nothing more. I hadn't known him, hadn't even been aware of who he was, but Darry had. They'd graduated in the same class- even played football together during high school.

He'd looked real pale after reading that newspaper article, sitting ramrod straight in his armchair. It was a bit unnerving, seeing my tough, immovable brother, the gang's own Superman, look so shaken.

I made dinner that night, and Soda did the dishes. When Darry came home from work, we all sat down to eat, and Soda immediately took over the conversation, sharing a few stories that had me clutching my stomach and even got a few chuckles out of Darry.

I think he could tell what we were doing, distracting him as best we could. But he appreciated it nevertheless, if the tight hugs he gave out before heading off to bed were anything to go by.

It was only after a week or so had gone by when things finally seemed to be settling down again.

Until another body was found.

And another one.

And another.

Lillian Osmond, 20. Steven Sui, 16. Terrance Macans, 28.

The police had established a curfew shortly after Steven Sui's death. They said it was for safety precautions, to make people feel better. But their announcement only seemed to amplify the town's already growing suspicions and worst fears.

Tulsa was dealing with a murderer.

Tensions were higher than ever between socs and greasers, even more than last year. Violence between our groups was becoming a daily occurrence, to the point where people had started carrying around a lot worse than just switchblades. Nowadays, taunts and insults were preferable to the beatings being handed out.

Darry was cracking down on us at home, and hard.

If we weren't at work or school, then we had to be home. If we wanted to go out, we had to tell him exactly where we were going and when we'd be back. And if we went out, it had to be in groups of three or more, no exceptions. Our curfew was now at 9 o'clock, on the dot, two hours before the official one set out by the police.

Carry a switch with you at all times.

Don't go near Soc territory.

No more rumbles.

Two-Bit and Steve both expressed varying levels of bemusement when Darry recited these exact rules at them. In the end, Two-Bit had clapped Darry on the shoulder while chuckling, and Steve rolled his eyes, but nodded.

Neither me or Soda had a problem with the new rules, not really. My brothers had a habit of worrying about me, regardless of the situation. They'd always been that way. But with the current threat of danger hanging over Tulsa's inhabitants, I'd barely left either of their sights.

Despite their overbearingness, I can't help but feel reassured by their concern. Thinking about the murders, the gruesomeness surrounding the victims' deaths, how the police can't seem to narrow down any suspects- well, it doesn't make me feel so hot.

However, as much as my brothers feel like they have to be strong for me, since I'm the youngest, I can't let them see me crack, even if they'd happily shoulder my burdens.

Because then they'd start hovering even more, and even though I'm pretty sure that's nearly impossible, I don't doubt their ability to. With good reason, they're both on edge- I am too- but I'm not poking that bear if I can avoid it.

Which is exactly why I could've put Barry Allen to shame with how fast I'd flown to the bookstore.

The owner, Mrs. Garcia, told me earlier this week that a new shipment of books would be arriving today, and I'd been eager to see the new selection ever since. Upon hearing the bell jingle above the door, the elderly woman waved me over immediately, ushering me towards the newly stocked bookcases, filled to the brim with fresh paperbacks. I'd sifted through the rows until I found one that I hadn't read before. A Wrinkle in Time.

At the register, I dug through my pockets for change, but Mrs. Garcia raised a trembling hand, shaking her head with a crinkled smile.

"Keep up that knack for reading, dear. That's how you can repay me." I tried to protest, but she only wrapped the book in brown paper before handing it over to me. Feeling the tips of my ears burn, I couldn't hold back the grin that overtook my face.

I vehemently thanked Mrs. Garcia as we parted, and she'd given me a kind wave in return, wishing me a 'stay safe out there.' I replied in kind.

Clutching my brand-new book, I sped towards the DX, hoping to make up for lost time. Halfway down the sidewalk, I heard the sound of heavy footsteps and a bell ring.

Glancing behind me, I saw nothing.

As I turned a corner, I'd failed to notice the mustang cruising down the block, until it was too late.

"Hey, greaser! Grease-y boy! Whatcha' got there!" I whipped around, heart pounding. Five socs were lounging in the convertible, smoking and jeering at pedestrians walking by.

Until they spotted me.

The car slowed, but before even one of them could touch their feet to the pavement, I ran, ducking into an alleyway nearby.

Inevitably, they followed.

…..0…..

And now here I am, running for my life.

Adrenaline pumps through me as I sprint down the narrow passage. Dodging a trash can and subsequently kicking it behind me, my eyes dart to the path in front of me. A chain-link fence, about ten feet tall, is what's currently standing between me and my way out.

"Shit!" I hiss, throwing a quick glance over my shoulder. Two of them followed on foot, and are mere strides behind me, malicious taunts pouring out of their mouths.

I throw myself against the metal, climbing as fast as my limbs can carry me. The rusted metal scrapes harshly against my fingers, but I grit my teeth and keep going. Nearly to the top, a hand snatches my ankle, yanking viciously.

For a second, I nearly lose my white-knuckled grip. Wriggling frantically, I snap my head around.

Only one of them climbed after me, a blonde boy with dark, hooded eyes. His friend is watching from nearby, heckling him on while drinking a beer. Blondie smirks up at me as I try yanking my leg away.

"C'mon, greaser, we ain't gonna hurt ya," he jives, digging his nails into my skin. Grunting, I twist and turn, but to no avail.

His friend lets out a hiccup and mumbles under his breath, "not while he's up there we're not."

Blondie must've heard him too, because he lets out an ugly snort, baring his pearly whites in a sneer as he looks towards the drunkard.

"Shut up, Nick. God, you're a lazy sack of shit." The drunk only waves him off before taking another chug. Turning his attention back towards me, Blondie scowls, tightening his hold on me.

"You better come on down, you worthless piece o-" The rest of his threat is cut off by the heel of my foot slamming into his mouth. A solid thump echoes through the alley as he flies towards the ground and his skull connects with the concrete pavement.

For a moment, no one breathes. Even the drunkard is standing there in shock, eyes bulging and mouth agape. Then, a faint moan resonates from Blondie, who's curled up into the fetal position.

And like that, my self-preservation kicks in.

Clawing at the fence, sweat dripping down my forehead, I hear the drunkard start bellowing, his furious insults slurring together as he stumbles over his friend and towards me. The metal rattles below, shaking me in the process.

"F-fucker! You son of-of bitch! Fuckin' grease, fuck, shit. C-c'mere you little-"

Just as I vault one leg onto the other side, blindly attempting to find leverage with my foot, the drunkard slams against the fence again. Hard.

My foot loses purchase, and I slip. Collapsing forward, my midriff collides with the sharp ends lining the top of the fence. Crying out, I jolt away from the pain, catapulting off the fence entirely.

And suddenly, I'm falling.

White hot pain shoots through me as I land directly on my shoulder. Dark spots cloud my vision, the world fading in and out in bursts of light. My mouth is open in a scream, but no sound is making its way past my lips, the wind having been ripped out of me. Past the ringing in my ears, I hear laughter.

And the sound of footsteps.

Suddenly, I'm yanked upwards and crumpling right back down, unable to support my own dead weight.

Oh, God, it hurts. Everything hurts. I want Sodapop. Darry. Make it stop.

"Shut the fuck up, you little bitch! Cover his mouth, Max! Hurry!" Oh, I'd said that out loud. As soon as I realize my lungs can handle air again, I start wailing, praying someone hears me. That really gets them scrambling.

"Soda! Steve! Sod-"

My ribs scream in protest as a hulking body lands on top of me. A hand shoves its way partly into my mouth, muffling my cries. I buck my body upwards, but the weight barely moves. My chest pulses sporadically as I try to breathe.

I lurch my head forward, trying to make a connection. The soc sitting on me dodges out of the way just in time, and strikes back with a punch that makes me see stars.

"What's the matter, greaser? We just want to talk, and you run from us? That's ain't too nice, now is it?" A shrill voice taunts, the same one who'd spotted me in the first place. A pair of hands slam onto my squirming legs, holding me down.

I try inching my hand down towards my front pocket, where my blade rests. But before I can do that, a stabbing pain shoots through my fingers as they're smushed beneath leather soles. Crying out, I try to yank my hand back, but it's of no use.

Something is ripped from my other hand. Through my foggy haze, I can just make out what it is.

"Ha! I can't believe it, it's a book. This pussy was carryin' 'round a friggin' book!" Laughter roars around me as the soc listlessly flips through the pages, before chucking it aside. It lands in a puddle of dirty water a wet plop.

I try screaming again. I can barely be heard over their guffaws.

"You'd think he'd be more tuff, 'specially since he runs with killers. Had no problem killing off ol' Bobby." A gruff voice speaks up. And then no one's laughing anymore.

My blood runs cold at that name, my struggles momentarily ceasing. My eyes sting.

Bobby. Bob. Bob Sheldon.

Johnny.

The fountain. Cold.

Water. I can't breathe.

They're drowning me, Johnny.

Help.

Soda.

I want my brothers.

"Ah, shit! He fuckin' bit me! You scumbag!" A metallic taste fills my mouth as I unlatch my teeth. A yell so loud bursts from my lips, that I swear I pop an eardrum. Wetness drips down my cheeks. I can't tell the difference between blood, sweat, and tears at this point.

"Shut 'im up! Shut him the hell up!"

"I'm trying!"

One kick to the side, and then another.

It hurts.

"Get away from him you sick sons of bitches!"

Soda.

Three deafening cracks sound through the air, drowning out all other noise.

The weight on top of me becomes almost unbearable as the boy abruptly leans over me. His wide eyes are flicking in every direction, his mouth moving inaudibly.

Tires squeal in the distance.

"What the fuck!"

"Was that a-"

"Who the hell-"

"Ponyboy! Oh my, God!"

"Get the fuck away from him, you fuckers!"

"Ah, shit! Let's go!"

Suddenly, I can breathe. I also feel incredibly faint.

Unable to focus on anything in particular, my eyes end up straying to brick wall behind me. And there, I notice three, small indentations with dusty specks falling from them.

"Holy shit, kid. Dammit, dammit!"

"Pony! Oh, God! Honey, it's okay. You're gonna be okay!"

My vision goes dark as familiar hands gently enclose around me.

And I feel safe.

…..0…..

A/N: So, that went from 0 to 100 real quick.

What do we think so far? I know- a lot of exposition in thought! I'm hoping to get more dialogue from the characters in the upcoming chapters, especially between the brothers. It's my personal goal to keep this fic from getting goofy. I'd like the situations to remain believable for the universe it's set in before some of the heavy plots start coming in that will give this fic its own little twists.

I'd love to hear your thoughts in the comments below, it'd be lovely to interact with you all as the story goes on. I appreciate any and all kudos!

What are your theories so far? Any ideas on who the man was watching Jean and Ponyboy? And who shot the gun?

Love seeing your reviews! Hope to update soon!