The apartment is grimy, cold. The woman in front of him is barely dressed, the shirt on her just as bad as the rest of the apartment, her arms thin. For her, this a good day. He knows that — but a good day doesn't necessarily put food in his stomach, and it doesn't make up for the lost time between them. She smiles at him in a way that should be motherly, comforting; instead it makes him feel angry, almost melancholic in response.

She is trying. It only makes him resent her that much more, an emotion he shouldn't have at this age, yet it's more substantial than love. It burns in his throat, and soon he will learn to savor the bitterness, the anger.

"Your daddy is gonna be here soon, Dallas," her voice sounds rough in her throat, her hands running through his hair, her nails a little too sharp than he liked. He's been the one washing his own hair for as long as he's been able to, and cutting it on his own, too. "Just a few more days."

"No he isn't," Hunger curls in his belly. The need to believe her that used to be there, isn't here now. He's so young, too young to know that no matter what she says, it won't actually happen. "You said that yesterday. He ain't comin', Momma."

Her face contorts, the skin too thin, too malnourished. The make up on her face is cracked, and for a moment, he can smell the cigarette smoke, thick as ever. She tries to speak again,

and this time, her nail taps against the table, painted a bright yellow. "You really want to leave tonight, Dallas? We have room." Her smile widens, her brown hair pulled in a half ponytail, squinting at Dallas from across the table. There's nothing mocking; just good natured, trying to appeal to him gently.

There's never been a mother he's met that's this nice, or accommodating in his life. It makes him uncomfortable, with the sincerity of it all. "I don't got nowhere else to go, I guess." He drawls out, half shrugging, able to see the invitation in front of him when offered. Behind her, he can see Soda and Pony talking in low voices, neither of them self conscious at all with their mother at all, no hesitation that whatever they wanted, they could get from her. He feels… jealous.

Mrs. Curtis beams wider. "We have just enough room for you, honey. We always do!"

She reaches across, and it's Ponyboy's hand who she touches. He's thirteen and he doesn't know that in a few weeks time, she's going to die. He looks up at his mother's face, at how young she is. How vibrant, how kind. His throat feels like it's going to close in on itself with grief, with need. There are so, so many things he wants to say, needs to say. Has to say. His voice shakes, "Mom—

get up. Get up," he shakes her shoulder, harder, harder than before.
She just lies in bed. She doesn't move from her bed, beyond pulling the pillow up over her more.

Asking for food is useless. He wants to shove her out of bed, beat his fists against her, make her do something, anything. Feel anything. It's useless, and he hears his father call out for him.

He turns his head, and his father rounds the corner, eyes blazing. "Get away from

there," Strong hands grasp his middle, and pulls him down from the cabinet. His father smiles down at him, bouncing him a little bit. "Come on, Ponyboy. You need to be more careful! You'll fall like that." He pulls down the necessary dishes with one hand, using his leg to push the wobbly chair out of the way.

"Sorry," Dallas says the words as if he were Ponyboy, shy and a little ashamed at being caught. "I just wanted to get it myself."

"I know," his father ruffles his hair, voice lowering, "We can say you did, huh, kiddo?"

Ponyboy grins up at his father. "Sure!"

He's put down on the floor, and his father pushes him out. Ponyboy takes off at a run,

turning the corner as fast as he can. He's panting, crouched behind the door. It's that apartment again, and the door keeps him hidden well enough. He's eight years old, and knows that he has to be quiet here while his dad and his mother argue. His heart pounds, but his father is reaching out to grasp his mother's wrist again.

He breathes out the word, don't one more time, and still, his father grabs his mother's wrists, pulls her to him, his other hand

going around her waist as the music plays out. The furniture is moved around, and watching his parents dance around the living room makes him happier than anything. He claps along with the music, the grin across his face spreading more and more.

His father twirls around his mother, her hair flying in her face. He grips her by the waist, leans down,

and it's the perfect time to dart out. Only once does he trip, his father's yells furious, his footsteps scrambling to catch up. He's running, racing out of the apartment despite that, desperate to hit the streets.

He'd rather live there, rather live and starve with the gangs than live here any fucking longer—

The dream shifts one more time. It's Johnny, in the car. Johnny who's just said that he doesn't want to be on the run anymore, Johnny who wants to turn himself in. Cold shock washes over him, and his mind goes, stretches into two different—

"Pony! Pony!" Soda's hand shakes his shoulder, and before Soda can stop him, Ponyboy falls right out of the bed. He bangs his shoulder into the carpet hard, and grunts with the pain. He swears up a blue streak that has Soda half laughing into his hand, shaking his head. "You better put that energy towards getting ready, kiddo. You've only got a couple minutes before you're late!"

"Thanks, Soda," Ponyboy huffs out, shoulder stinging as he sits up. He rubs at his side, shivering in the cold. He glances to his left, and Dallas' face is as stormy as ever. It's a indication he won't be around much today, even if the dreams weren't.

Staggering to his feet, Ponyboy untangles himself from the covers, makes his way to his bathroom, and decides that the dreams will lie there, where they belong.

When he brushes his teeth, finally gets out of the door, he can't help himself though, glancing at the photos of his smiling parents, thinking of the way his mother had smiled so gently at Dally, and the memory of the pit of jealousy Dallas had felt.

There's an agitated pinch of cold against his neck, and it's all he needs to know that he's going to be late. A flicker of Dallas' face catches the edge of his sight — then he's off at a run.

His head feels foggy for the rest of the day from the dreams. The tests in front of him feel jumbled, it takes time to concentrate, to get the woman — Dally's mother — out of his head. It feels as if a phantom pain has taken up residence in his arm, as if his father was grasping his forearm again.

When was the last time he dreamed so clearly of his parents faces and remembered them? When was the last time a nightmare happened, and he had been able to still recall it so vividly the next day?

Ponyboy tries to focus through the day, allows Dallas to drift at the edge of his vision. He feels alternately, that freezing cold Dallas has given off for weeks now, intermingled with the feeling of a strange wash of heat. Both of them emit from Dallas, and both of them feel so different from each other.

Art class is where he can stop feeling as if he has to have some kind of control. He sits in the back of the class, with a piece of charcoal, and allows his mind to shut off, let his hand do the work. The feeling he'd had back when they had died, of sinking into something formless, without time, comes over him in waves.

He doesn't struggle against it. It's soothing, to let it guide his hand over the paper, moving and moving until the end of the day bell shatters it all.

When he looks down at the sketches, they're all variations, blending into each other just like the dreams. Darrel Curtis Sr., creative and smiling. Dallas' mother, her face taut and gaunt. The pattern of her clothes, the way her bed looked mixing with his mother's legs as she danced, with the way her hands looked tapping on the table absently.

And there, at the very bottom of the page, is the ghost of Johnny's face, wrecked with nervousness and resolution.