This story has been in my head since the 1970s, when I first read "The Outsiders." Who knew I'd ever have the change to actually write it? In my AU, the boys have a sister, Cinnamon, between Pony and Soda. I've taken some liberities with the time line -- the story takes place about 20 years after the end of the book, but in present day. I'd appreciate it if you'd call those missing years "poetic license." I don't own the Curtis boys or anyone you've heard of before. I hope y'all like it, as Pony might say.

Chapter 1: Going home again

He had begged his brother to keep his secret, and because over the last twenty years he had asked so little of his family, Sodapop agreed. He kept quiet. Laura knew, of course, but they had both covered for Darry. The gang, those that were left, had guessed, but no one discussed it, not the diagnosis or the treatments or the prognosis, which fluctuated like the Tulsa heat index.

But now? Now, there was relapse. Soda sat in the darkened living room. He had kept his promise: he hadn't called Ponyboy in Salt Lake or Cinnamon in Kansas City, and when they checked in, if Darry was sick from the chemo or sleeping, he and Laura made excuses. It broke Soda's heart to hear his little girl lying: ("Oh, hey, Uncle Pony, he's not here, he had a chance to work triple overtime or something") but he was also proud of her for respecting Darry's wishes.

But now, tonight, after the ambulance left, and father and daughter had scrubbed Darry's bedroom clean of the sick and the smell, Laura said quietly, "Daddy, you have to call them. What if he doesn't get better?"

The thought filled Sodapop Curtis with such dread that he picked up the phone, not waiting another moment, not even until morning.

Cinnamon Curtis Rockwell checked her patient a final time before tiptoeing out of the room. She was a good nurse, smart, patient and kind, and she was especially fond of the juvenile delinquents who made their way through the emergency room. Without saying a word, she could settle the wildest boy and calm him for treatment. "Years of practice," she said evasively, when asked about her special touch.

She came behind the nurse's station, about to tell her coworker, Nancy, that she was heading down to the cafeteria for ten minutes, when Nancy gestured toward the door. Clinton Rockwell, Cinnamon's husband of 15 years, stood there, looking hastily put together but wide awake.

"Baby? What is it?" Cinnamon asked. "It's the middle of the night, where are the kids?"

"In the car. They're fine; I left it near Buddy." Buddy sat in the security booth in the hospital parking lot, midnight to six every night. "We … we gotta go, honey."

"Go where?"

"Tulsa."

"Tulsa?" Cinnamon's voice was a squeak. "It's the middle of the night," she repeated lamely.

"Soda called," Clint said. "You need to go home, and we're going to bring you. He said -- "

Cinnamon shook her head, holding up one had to stop her husband before he could elaborate. "I'm working until seven."

Clint looked at Nancy, who handed Cinnamon her jacket and purse.

"Come on, baby, it's OK," Clint said, helping her on with her jacket.

"Who?" she whispered. "Not Laura."

"No, honey. Darry. Darry's sick."

The phone was ringing. It was the middle of the night, and the phone was ringing. Michelle Curtis buried herself under the quilt, as the light went on, vaguely aware that her husband had answered and was talking softly to someone. Ponyboy was a writer for Rolling Stone and prone to the occasional after-hours call, from editors and photographers and even, every now and again, from rock stars.

"Soda?" she heard him say. "I can't get you. Calm down. Chronic what?"

Michelle sat up abruptly. Ponyboy had a reporter's notebook in his hand. They were scattered all over the house and he always kept one on his nightstand. "Spell it for me, Pepsi-Cola," he said gently, and Michelle knew by the use of Soda's nickname the conversation was very bad indeed.

Pony scribbled and tilted the notebook so she could read "chronic myeloid leukemia." She gasped, tears already prickling the back of her eyes. She looked at Pony, and he mouthed, "Darry."

By the time he got off the phone ten minutes later, Michelle had packed and was on line, booking them and their small son on the first available flight to Oklahoma.