Ponyboy had always known he was different from the others.
It was there, as sure and strong as the oak tree outside his window. It stirred sometimes, when he was particularly upset, deep within his gut, and he would be hunched over the toilet for hours throwing up whatever was inside his stomach. Other times, it would flare up and his dreams would be filled with blood.
It had almost killed him just after his parents died, the fever building so high and so long that the doctors said it was a miracle he'd survived at all. He could still feel the hair stuck to his scalp with sweat, the teeth-chattering cold, the tears wept by his brothers behind the bedroom doors. Most of all, the pity and fear from the others, even the doctors.
He didn't know hearing their thoughts wasn't normal.