Disclaimer: The Outsiders belong to S.E. Hinton and not to me. Much to my husband's chagrin, I just pretend that they are mine. The song standing in as a chapter title, "Crumblin' Down" belongs to John "Cougar" Mellencamp.

Steve walked to the DX in a huff.

At least he'd get a little distance at work …

At least he'd be able to forget about his problems and do something that mattered—fix cars.

As soon as he stepped through the door into the station's small office area, he could feel his worries slowly dissipating. "George!" He called out as the bells that hung from the top of the door clattered against each other, marking his arrival. "George! Where are ya?"

George, a small, stout man with graying hair wandered in from the garage, wiping his large hands with an already greasy rag. "Ah, good. You're here," he sighed, patting Steve on the shoulder as he passed him. "The missus is expecting me for dinner tonight. She's mighty pleased that I've finally found someone I trust to run this place."

Steve smiled and sat down in one of the chairs they had set up for waiting customers, resting his head back against the wall. "I'm mighty pleased you trust me too," he replied. "I know I don't look the part of a responsible youth."

George laughed. "Well, Steve, you've earned it. I'm just lucky that you're a lot like me at sixteen … I know this town don't have many good opportunities for boys like you. I'm just glad that I can help you out—keep you out of trouble," he said with a wink.

Steve nodded. He knew darn well that he had gotten into his share—and then some.

"Well, then," George began, his green eyes shifting to the clock that hung on the wall. "It's almost four thirty and I need to make a couple stops on my way… Told the wife I'd be back by five …" He muttered to himself. "So I better get outta here."

George walked behind the desk where the cash register sat, placed the rag on the counter, and grabbed his jacket and hat. He stood motionless, lost in his thoughts for a minute, as he went through what had been done already and what he still needed to do. "The daily log is back in the garage," he began, speaking to himself at first and then looking over at Steve. "There's only one car back there now … It needs a new alternator, which I've left for you. Owner's gonna pick it up first thing tomorrow. After that, tidy up a bit or something. Sorry business isn't booming like usual, it is the middle of the winter." He paused again, his eyes scanning the little office and then landing on Steve. "Now, if you run into any problems—anything at all—you give me a call. Okay?" he asked.

It was obvious that he hadn't ever left the station alone.

And alone with a greasy kid at that.

"I will," Steve said, standing up to see George to the door. "I'll give you the full report on Sunday."

"Good man," George replied, placing a large hand on Steve's shoulder again. "Have a good night, son."

Steve held the door open and watched as George sauntered to his car. "I will."

George smiled as he climbed in through the driver's side and pulled the door closed behind him. After a moment, the engine roared to life and he gave Steve a little wave through the foggy window.

Steve watched as the car pulled out of the station, past the four gas pumps, and then onto the dead street outside. Stepping back into the warmth of the DX station, Steve let the door swing shut behind him. He walked around behind the counter where the register sat and leaned forward on his elbows, resting his chin in his hands. So it was just him. He was finally in charge. It was almost enough to take his mind off of his home life and what his mother had said earlier that afternoon.

Steve scanned the small office area for a moment and then turned his attention to the gray world outside that mimicked his sentiments. Although it wasn't quite five o' clock yet, the sun had already begun its decline behind the heavy blanket of clouds. In another hour its light would be gone beneath the horizon and the snowy gray haze would give way to an inky black, starless night.

Steve straightened himself up and grabbed George's rag from the counter, stuffing it into his back pocket. He headed through the door that led to the garage and noticed the single car that George had mentioned—a '55 Chevy, candy apple red.

It's a damn shame that something's wrong with her, Steve thought to himself as he approached the Chevy. Although he loved what he did, there was just something about seeing a car like that—a car that should be out on the road—sitting in the silence of the DX garage that bothered him. The car may have been over ten years old, but Steve could tell that she was still in great shape, despite the faulty alternator. He'd give just about anything for a car like that—one that still looked good and actually ran.

In some ways, cars like this were better than the greasy girls at school.

Even though he worked at the DX too, Sodapop just didn't understand. He didn't have the same passion, the same drive to fix something as complex as a car engine. He liked being at the DX because he thrived on dealing with the people—pumping gas, selling Pepsi behind the counter, taking keys from customers as they left their cars in Steve's (and George's) capable hands. Soda just couldn't appreciate the beauty of a shiny, well-made vehicle. He couldn't see that a car didn't talk back to you, didn't get angry when you spent too much time with your friends or break your heart when some better guy came along …

Steve sighed and headed toward the work bench and row of shelves that held the station's supply of stocked parts. The new alternator, still in its box, was sitting on the bench next to the daily log where George kept track of the various jobs and how much time they took to complete. Steve looked over the Chevy's particular problem in the log—trouble starting/doesn't kick over, makes a clicking sound when turning the key in the ignition—scrawled in George's scratchy handwriting.

Steve nodded to himself. Sounds like an alternator problem, all right, he thought. That or maybe even the battery. He grabbed the box and a set of wrenches from the bench as he made his way over to the car. He fiddled around, pulling the hood up and then leaned inside to survey the car's engine.

Satisfied with his plan of attack, Steve set to work removing the old alternator and installing the new one. As he worked in silence, his mind began to wander …

It wasn't anything new for Steve. The DX was the one place where he could clear his head enough to really think about things. To really and truly reflect on everything that was happening at any given time.

Sometimes he'd think about school—his classes, the fall football games, the girls, the rivalry with the Socs—or the guys from the gang and how different it would be for everyone once he got out of Tulsa.

Sometimes he'd just think about cars—those he was working on, ones he saw out on the road, or even how to lift hub caps off of a particular make and model.

Today—even though he tried his hardest to fight it—his mind wandered back toward his mother, sitting quietly in bed, too tired and dizzy to do anything else …

From what he had learned over the years, Steve knew that his mother, Agnes Morris, had been born and raised in Tulsa. Growing up, she liked horses and little kids, but because her family had been middle class and couldn't afford any horses of their own, she ended up turning her attention to kids instead. In the summers during high school, she helped out in the children's ward of the local hospital and eventually went away to college on a partial scholarship so that she could become a school teacher. She was smart and pretty, and just about everybody liked her, but she was focused too, so she didn't have much time for boyfriends.

After graduation she returned to Tulsa and was offered a job at the local elementary school. She took it, and it was there that she met Franklin "Frank" Randle.

Ten years her senior, cocky, and cunning, Frank was also a Tulsa native. He, however, had never left the city and, instead, he made his way by working random jobs—cleaning office buildings one day and bussing tables the next. Eventually, he landed a steady position as a janitor at the school Agnes taught at and worked his way up, first becoming head of the janitorial staff and then gaining charge over maintaining the grounds of the elementary school and eventually the high school.

A real catch—or so his mother had always said—the pair dated for a short while, and then married when Agnes was twenty-four.

Later that year, Steven Franklin Randle was born.

Unable to remember much of his life before age five, Steve thought back to his very first day of kindergarten. He remembered being both scared and excited, but mostly excited because his mother always spoke so highly of going to school. They had walked there together, hand in hand, and she had spoke to him about the importance of being good and paying close attention to everything his teacher said. She was proud of him, he knew, because the smile never left her face that day. Even as she left him in his first classroom with the other kids his age, she was beaming, waving to him as she headed out into the hall and back home until it was time to pick him up again. She was healthy then—healthy and happy—and it seemed like he had the normal family. He wasn't very observant at five and, little did he know, things weren't as they seemed.

Steve was about ten when it happened. He had just gotten home from school—his mom allowed him to walk by himself now—and he met her in the kitchen where she was getting dinner ready for his dad so that he'd have a warm meal when he arrived home. Sitting at the kitchen table, working on some math problems, Steve looked up to find his mother falling to the floor. He had been scared—terrified—so he ran to the neighbor's house to get help. When he returned, his mom was awake and alert, maybe even a little confused, so they waited for his dad before they all headed for the hospital.

Unable to determine what was wrong at the time, the doctor ordered for check-ups every other month and a strict diet of healthy foods. It wasn't until years later that they had a name for what had been ailing her. "MS" the doctor had called it—or multiple sclerosis.

Steve shook the memory away as he stepped back from the Chevy's opened hood. Putting a greasy hand to his face and sighing heavily, he wandered back toward the office area and picked up the phone.

He entered the digits by heart, the rotary dial spinning and clicking back to zero with the input of each new number. He listened impatiently as the ringing began—one, then two, three, almost four times—then a familiar voice picked up.

"Hello?"

It was Ponyboy.

"Hey Pony, is Soda around?" Steve asked.

The three Curtis brothers were almost always at home in the evenings nowadays. Darry had been keeping a tight grip on them since their folks died. While he didn't blame him, Steve couldn't help but think that Darry needed to loosen up a little bit. He'd turn into an old man in under a year if he kept this up.

"Yeah, hold on a second. Okay?" Ponyboy replied. There was something in his voice that Steve didn't like. He got the strange impression that Ponyboy didn't like him. He figured that it was because Pony was jealous of his friendship with Sodapop—like he had big plans to take Soda away or something. Steve knew quite well that the two were close—heck, sometimes Soda wouldn't shut up about his little brother—but he could never quite figure out what was behind Ponyboy's changing attitudes towards him. Soda attributed it to the hormones of a teenager. Steve wasn't totally convinced.

"Hey, Steve!" came Soda's cheerful voice on the other end of the line, breaking him out of his thoughts. "What's goin' on? Have you decided to ask Evie out after all, and you're tellin' me first?"

Steve rolled his eyes and his friend's persistence. "No, I haven't decided that," he muttered. "Will you just drop it already?"

Sometimes Sodapop Curtis was impossible.

"Okay, okay. I'm sorry," Soda replied. "So what is goin' on?"

"Not much … I'm at the DX tryin' to get some work done," Steve began, delaying the inevitable.

It all became so much more real if he talked about it—acknowledged what he knew to be true.

"But, that's not why I'm callin'," he continued. "It's about my mom … Do you think you could come down here for the end of my shift? You know, to talk?"

There was a pause on the other end. Steve knew that Soda was thinking it over, trying to figure out the best way to convince Darry to let him out of the house without spilling the beans. None of the other guys knew the extent of Mrs. Randle's illness, and Steve didn't intend on having them find out. It was one thing to have an old man that didn't appreciate you and belted you every now and then—both Johnny and Dally could identify with that—but it was another thing altogether to have a mother that didn't know where she was half of the time, and not because she was drunk.

"Hold on, let me check," Soda finally responded. There was a soft click as he placed the phone down, indicating that he had wandered off to find Darry.

Steve looked out the window at the dark clouds swirling overhead. It looked like it might snow again, and that would do nothing to help his chances of having Darry let Sodapop out of the house. He was about to give up hope, figuring that Soda had been gone too long for the news to be good, when his friend returned to the line.

"Darry's not thrilled, but I told him it's important, so he's letting me come by. You can drop me off back here when you're done, right?"

"That's great," Steve said, genuinely happy to have the company and feeling as if a small weight had been lifted. Soda was the best listener he knew and he always seemed to understand. "But I don't have my car with me. It wouldn't start up after school either."

"Oh," Soda sounded let down. "It's just so damn cold out there …"

"The DX isn't that far. Run if you have to."

Soda chuckled slightly. "Ponyboy's the track star … But I'll do what I can. Maybe, ten minutes?"

"Okay, I'll keep an eye out for you then."

"Good. And I expect some hot chocolate or somethin' when I get there."

Steve sighed. "How about a Pepsi? I know we got those."

Soda chuckled again. "All right, man. I'm on my way," he said. "Just after I find my other shoe …"

"See you soon." Steve hung up the receiver and looked out into the darkness. Knowing Soda the way he did, it would be at least twenty minutes before he strolled through the door.

Half an hour later, Soda came plowing into the office.

"Lord almighty it's cold out there!" he exclaimed, pulling his hands from his jacket pockets and rubbing them together.

"Didn't bother you so much this afternoon," Steve said from across the room, planted comfortably in one of the customer chairs. He didn't feel much like working anymore, and besides, he had just about fixed the '55 Chevy already.

"The sun was out so it was warmer then," Soda explained with a shrug as he wandered to the large cooler that was behind the register and pulled a bottle of Pepsi from it.

Steve just shook his head in disbelief. The day was as gray as any and the sun certainly hadn't made an appearance.

"So, what's goin' on with your mom?" Soda asked, cutting to the chase, as he sat down in the chair next to Steve. Although many people thought that Sodapop Curtis had his head in the clouds half of the time, he knew the score. "Is she gettin' worse?"

Steve looked at his friend. It almost seemed unfair for him to whine to Soda about his mom being sick. At least he still had a mom. Soda wasn't so lucky. "I don't know if worse would be the word. She certainly ain't better, though."

Soda nodded silently as he sipped his pop.

"She asked about your mom again," Steve said quietly, watching Soda's usually happy face fall slightly. "She keeps askin' me to say hello for her and that she's sorry she hasn't been around much. I mean, I've told her that your mom died a couple of times now and it doesn't do any good. She just plain forgets or chooses not to remember it."

Soda bit at his bottom lip and shifted in his seat, thinking. "Is she takin' her medication and stuff?"

"Yeah, I give it to her each morning and then again when I get home from school if she hasn't gotten it herself."

"So, your dad …" Soda began, knowing that just the mention of Frank Randle was a sore spot for Steve.

"He doesn't give a shit," Steve said darkly. "You know how he is. He barely puts in any time at work and then comes home and sits all day—drinkin' and smokin' and watchin' the TV. He don't care that mom's sitting in the back bedroom, all tired and confused. He don't give a damn about either of us."

Soda looked down at the floor and then over at Steve. "At least she's got you," he said simply.

Steve leaned back against the wall behind him and looked up at the ceiling tiles. "But that ain't enough," he protested. "If Frank doesn't want a family he should just get the hell out. He doesn't do anything for us anyway. It's my paycheck that's payin' for most of the bills."

Soda nodded. "I know it ain't fair, Steve," he replied. "But you know you've got all us guys. We're your family too, and we're happy to have ya."

Steve looked over at Sodapop. "Yeah … But it just ain't the same."

Soda was quiet as he sipped from his Pepsi. "I know," he said sullenly.

Steve made a face. He knew that Sodapop was thinking about his own splintered family and he felt a little bit guilty for even mentioning his personal problems. "Look, Soda, thanks for coming out here. I don't mean to bring you down with me and get you upset too …"

Soda smiled slightly. "That's all right," he replied. "You're my best pal … Like the brother I never had, even."

Steve smiled too. "You have two brothers …" he said, cocking an eyebrow.

"Yeah, but not any sixteen-year-old ones."

Steve sighed. Soda was a strange kid. "Hey," he began, deciding it best to just change the subject and try to forget about his mom. "You wanna see the car I worked on tonight? She's a real beaut."

"Sure," Soda replied. "What else is there to do around here? I reckon you're just about done for the night."

Steve shrugged. "Just gotta start her up. Make sure it was the alternator and not the battery."

Soda nodded as they both stood from their chairs and headed into the garage.

"Golly!" Soda exclaimed as he approached the shiny, red car. "You ain't lyin'. What I wouldn't do to get a car like that."

Steve smiled as he pulled the car's key from his shirt pocket and slid into the driver's seat. He rolled down the window and Soda leaned against the frame, his head half inside the car, checking out the interior. "Yeah, she's definitely all right," Steve replied. "Now for the moment of truth …"

Steve put the key in the ignition and held his breath in his lungs as he turned it. The car's engine turned over, its loud purr reverberating off of the garage walls. If only other things in his life were this easy to fix.

"Sounds good," Soda commented. "Purrin' like a kitten. Looks like your job here is done."

Steve nodded, turning the engine off, but remaining behind the wheel. He didn't much feel like going home just yet.

Soda straightened up, backing away from the car, and stretched. Steve smirked at the sight of him—you would have thought that he had been cooped up in a little box, not sitting around the DX. "I take it you're ready to go," Steve said dryly.

Soda grinned. "I guess so," he replied with a shrug. "You wanna come over? I bet Darry's got some leftovers from dinner."

Steve smiled. It was almost as if Soda had read his mind. "Okay."

Steve climbed out of the Chevy and closed the door lightly. He returned the key to its drawer behind the register and surveyed the station. His first night alone. How had he done? Would George be pleased and allow him to run things again sometime soon? He hoped so.

"After you, Sodapop," Steve said, holding the outside door open for his friend.

Was he forgetting anything? The lights were off, the garage and office were both in order, the register was locked, the door would be too as soon as closed it … Nope. He had done it all.

"Come on, man! I'm freezing!" Soda shouted, breaking Steve from his mental checklist. "Are you comin' or what?"

"I'm comin'!" Steve yelled back as he pulled the door closed behind him and trotted over to join Sodapop outside under the moonless, starless sky.