"Dally, where're you from?" Pony asks, downing more soda to hide his nervousness.
"What?" Dally asks, dumbfounded for a moment.
"Like... where're you from?"
"I spent three years in New York," he says, then, nothing.
"But you weren't born there."
"No, I guess I wasn't." Dallas says.
"Dally," the kid whines, sprawled across the car's hood. "That's not an answer!"
"No, guess it ain't."
"Ugh. You're no fun," the kids says, pouting.
A few minutes later, Dally says, quietly, "I'm Russian. Dunno how I got here. My mom died on the way here, guess we were running."
"Running from what?" Pony asks softly. He knows he's treading on thin ice, but he's curious.
Dallas lights a cigarette and takes a long, long drag. "Guess she and my old man must've gotten into some trouble. I was about five when I came over here, don't remember much."
"Oh," Pony says, disappointed. Dallas snorts in amusement.
"I remember it was cold as hell back there," he says after a long stretch of quiet. He's talkative today, and Pony always listens; good combo. "People would always look after me. Back there, I wasn't some no good kid. We had rules."
"Rules?"
Dal nods. "I still kinda follow them. Stay loyal, stay trustworthy. Basically that. It was kind of a honor among thieves sorta bullshit."
"Dally, this sounds like the mafia," Ponyboy says, unsurprised.
Dallas just sends him a sharp grin. "You're smarter than you look, Vor. It's a good trait to have. Now," he says, getting up from the hood of his car and lightly pushing the younger boy off, "we need to get you home, or Superman and Soda are gonna throw a fit."