A/N: Chapter one is set in 2006, thirty-seven years after the prologue.

--

Steve Randle sat down in his hard, plastic chair, facing a semi-circle of identically sour and mutinous faces, and sighed. With the same indifferent, professional guise, Steve proceeded to say precisely what he had been trained to say, and had been saying for now thirty years, since he was twenty-seven years old and had taken up the position as drug counselor in the thirteen to eighteen-year-olds outpatient wing at Clearview (a pun in itself) Treatment Facility in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma.

"Do you remember what we talked about last time?"

He was greeted with silence, however.

"Does anyone have anything they'd like to mention before we get started?"

More silence buzzed in his ears.

"How about if I were to give you all drug tests?" he asked testily. "How would those come out, huh? Done anything illegal lately?"

Alright, he thought, maybe not so professional. But it's been at least a month and a half with some of these kids, and all they do is give me lip and say, "Oh, but you don't understand! You're so old, and you don't have any problems and all you do is sit there and tell us how fucked up we are and what'll happen if we don't 'get back on the right track'! You don't know us! You don't understand…" The hell I don't.

Some kids shook their heads and scoffed; others stared disbelievingly at the usually cool-headed counselor; one girl just wrung her hands.

"Katherine asked me this morning if we had discussed coping techniques, and motivations, and deep, cleansing breaths…" Steve glanced at a tall, skinny boy who was now shaking with silent laughter—Matt, isn't it? Matt Palmer?—and rolled his eyes. "It seems that we haven't actually bothered with deep, cleansing breaths… and with good reason, right? You all know how to breathe?"

One girl laughed—Ashley something?—and Matt Palmer let out a chuckle, until a muscular boy—that's got to be Ethan Yorke, the one Kath told me to watch out for—glared at them both and they became quiet.

"Are we planning to get something done today?"

Nothin'.

"Anything?"

Nada.

"One Goddamn thing?"

A group gasp, but a theatrical one.

"You normally go out of your way to never shut up, but at the same time never answer my questions," Steve observed, "but now you're not even talking?" He gazed around the room, watching the set faces remain steadfast in their dislike. Why was he trying to reason with these kids? When had he sunk that low? "Oh, I get it. You're mad 'cause A.J. went back to inpatient and you think it's my fault. Well, you all know why he went back, and he did that to himself. He was trying to push me, the cops, his parents—he had it coming. Maybe it'll do him some good to be back. Thinking about it, maybe it would do all of you some good…"

The false threats had no bearing, and they knew it. He was like that once, though, was he not? He reasoned it out to "kids are different these days." When he really considered it, however, he knew that he was just like them when he was their age…but he sometimes thought the difference was in the company he kept. To outsiders, he and his friends looked like a gang of hoodlums—scary JDs—but to each other they were the best of buddies. He sometimes wondered if these kids even had that.

"Fine," he said shortly. "You want to try some breathing?"

--

"Those kids are each Satan incarnate," Steve murmured as he watched all dozen of them scramble out of the building, most of them reaching into their pockets for cigarettes and lighters. The smoking didn't bother him—he still smoked on occasion, and he had started even younger than the youngest of them—but he had to admit that when he was their age—when did that get to be so damn long ago?—he had found ways to have a good time without any drugs…except for the occasional bottle of beer, he supposed, although that occasion may have recurred more often had it not been for—

"Oh, Steven," Katherine O'Brien said cheerfully—the woman was always so damn perky! "In their own rights, they are wonderful people. They just need a chance to reform from their misguided ways."

Steve snorted, thinking, I was just like 'em, and I ain't no wonderful person, either…and when did she swallow the brochure?

"Sure, Kath. Whatever you say." He picked up his small backpack, which contained some paperwork that he needed to look over and fill out, and headed out the door, past the scornful, disdainful, sneering looks of his three-thirty to four-thirty group. Thank God I only have them and that morning group on Fridays. I can go home… Some people wondered why he didn't carry a briefcase—they didn't get that that was too professional; successful businessman personified was not a look that Steve was trying to suggest.

He was just about to open the door to his car when he spotted that Matt Palmer boy bent over the engine of a dirty red car.

Steve sighed, hitched his backpack higher on his shoulder, then walked over to Matt and tapped him on the arm. He jumped and hit his head on the hood, but stood up straight, watching Steve cautiously with his light brown eyes.

"You know anything about cars?"

"Well," Matt began, running a hand nervously through his dirty blonde hair. "No. I just wanted to look like I was doing something. It seems kind of dumb when you're pounding on the steering wheel and praying for the stupid thing to start." He shrugged, smiling at his feet.

Steve glanced at the engine, fighting the urge to roll his eyes. "For starters," he said, leaning over the car and tightening the cover on the oil, "try not to turn or yank anything when you're not sure what you're screwing with."

"Oh, right. I'll…remember that."

"Did you think it would start if you looked at it hard enough?" Steve cocked an eyebrow.

"Yeah, sort of… I was going to just go back inside in a few minutes and call someone." He frowned, thinking. "Hey, how do you do that?"

"Do what?"

"That thing with the eyebrow—one up, one down. I could never do that."

Steve smirked, then answered dismissively, "A friend of my did it so much the rest of us picked it up. You get used to it."

Matt stood awkwardly for the next five minutes as Steve tweaked and adjusted, until Steve told him to try the gas, and the car roared to life, as if by magic.

As he was shutting the hood, Steve noted, with some wistful amusement, that he had managed to smear oil and dirt all over his hands. The hood closed with a satisfying 'thunk' and Steve studied the car more closely, realizing that it was an old Mustang.

"Man, s'been a while since I saw one o' these… What year is this thing?"

"'66. I saved up for a while and had my eye on a car, but when I finally had enough to get it, someone had bought it a day before, so my grandpa sold me his car for the same, said he didn't drive it anyway. It usually runs pretty well, even if it's really old and dirty and dented, but it's been acting up lately."

"Must be a nice grandpa," Steve said dryly, laughing without humor.

"Yeah. So…where'd you learn that? You acted…I dunno, like you just automatically knew exactly what you were doing, like it was natural…More natural than when you preach during group."

Steve looked at him sharply, and Matt almost backed up a step, but instead wrung his hands.

"I don't preach, 'cause preachers have audiences and I got no one to listen." Less harshly, but a bit more stiffly, Steve said, "I used to be a mechanic. You want the truth?"

Matt nodded carefully.

"Sometimes I wonder if that's what I should still be doing… You don't smoke, do you?"

"Oh, uh, no, it's…it's a dirty, bad habit. I don't smoke, sir."

Steve frowned. "That's too bad… I wanted to bum a cigarette."

Matt looked confused for a moment, then smiled and reached into his pocket. "Sorry, it's a habit…" He passed Steve a lighter, then a cigarette, and watched as Steve lit it and inhaled deeply, relaxing.

"Lying?" Steve asked casually.

"Yeah, but mostly I thought types like you don't like drugs and alcohol and, well, cigarettes."

"I don't," Steve said, "but I smoke anyway, and I drink sometimes."

"And the drugs?"

"No. Say, what's with 'types like me'?"

"Um…you know."

"No, I don't… Alright, I do. I just want to know why that's a bad thing."

"It's not…But people don't want to talk to some stranger that's gonna judge them and tell them they suck but try to help them anyway, and they're not gonna be honest because most of them are protecting someone."

"Are you?"

"What?" Matt shifted nervously.

"Are you protecting someone?"

Matt never answered, and so Steve changed the subject. "What makes you think I'm judging you?"

"'Cause it's your job, sir."

"So it's my job to not know a thing about you and categorize you anyway?"

"Yeah."

"It's my job to help you, not piss you off… I can't really blame you, though. I would have done the same thing when I was your age. I did, actually." Steve smiled faintly.

"Sir, sorry, but teenagers were different in the fifties."

Steve laughed, the first genuinely amused laugh all day. "How old do you think I am?"

"Umm…Was I wrong?"

"I'm not even sixty," Steve protested. "It's the hair, right? It's not even mostly gray…"

"You just…seem older."

"I've had a lot of aging, lots of practice and experience. I understand more than you think I do. That's why I did this in the first place. And it gets harder every year."

"You really care what happens to us?"

"Maybe," Steve replied indifferently, shrugging. "I just want you to see that you can honestly get out of whatever funk you've been in, or you can die. Those are really your only options."

"No," Matt disagreed, shaking his head. "You're just trying to scare me now."

Steve took a long drag on his cigerette, shaking his head. "I've been exactly where you are, and it doesn't get any easier if you just accept it. I've seen things you wouldn't ever dream of—I know what I'm talking about. I'll bet you've seen your share of shit, too, but that's not going to help you just 'cause you carry it around like a badge, an excuse. Get over it."

"Aren't you living the good life?" Matt scoffed. "This is just a weird hobby, right? To help people, save them from themselves..." He snorted, watching the grass sway in the light breeze.

"Who the hell said that?" Steve asked incredulously. "Have you seen what I get paid? Good life, my ass."

"Well, there are reasons why we are the way we are, and maybe you should find out."

"I'm trying, but I can't help you if you automatically hate me. You don't know me any more than I know you." He tossed his cigarette butt to the asphalt and ground it beneath his foot, punctuating his point.

"Exactly. Maybe if you seemed human to them they wouldn't rag on you so much," Matt suggested earnestly.

"What do you want me to do? Bear my soul? It's not appropriate, and are you nuts?"

"Maybe you should just clear up all those wrong impressions everyone has of you—"

"Everyone?"

"And stop being so stiff."

Steve tensed, setting his jaw. He stared back at the large brick building, looking so welcoming, and remembered standing before it, on a day not unlike this one, thirty-five years before, thinking the exact opposite. "Fine. I will. But I expect you not to join in their fun and games. Do we have an understanding?"

"Yeah."

"Good… So I'll see you tomorrow."

Sighing, Matt extended his hand to Steve, who took it in his own, smearing the grease.

Steve began to reach into his pocket for a cloth to wipe his hands on, but then remembered that he hadn't carried around a grease rag since he worked at the DX. He smiled and dragged his hands along the length of his pants, glad that he had decided to wear dark ones today. After his hands were relatively clean, he reached into his pocket for his keys and entered his car, wondering what he had just done. That conversation had gone by so fast…

So they think I'm an evil dictator who gets paid millions just to sit around and tell them they're worthless, huh? Wonder where they got an idea like that...

On his way home, Steve made a detour to Darrel Curtis' house. It was a long detour, true—Darry still lived in Tulsa—but Steve liked to think that he could be impulsive when he felt like it—which was the point of impulsiveness anyway—just to avoid settling into a life of planned monotony. That was a life that he never imagined for himself. If anything, he had suspected he would still be working at the DX—or, more up to date, some other gas station/garage, since the DX had merged with another company.

Truthfully, he wasn't quite sure why he was visiting Darry, but he reasoned it up with the fact that he hadn't been to see him recently and he didn't want to lose touch.

Steve rolled down the window and let the cool, crisp air of September blow his hair out of his tired eyes. He sighed as he scanned the row of houses before him, picking out Darry's. It had been renovated almost beyond recognition, but he, like Darry and Two-Bit, could pinpoint exactly what was and wasn't new. Of course, that may just have been being a part of the process, as it was Darry that had done it. The neighborhood had been fixed up as well—new neighbors had moved in sometime in the nineties and had the money to. It was now relatively safe, what with a different class of people moving in—people who had no idea what conflicts originally rose from what side of town you lived on. Steve thought it was better that way.

Aside from the more modern house, Darry's life had changed in other ways. In his words, an empty house had taken some getting used to, but eventually he had adjusted—that much was evident in the six years he had spent living on his own after Pony had graduated. In 1972, however, he met an old flame from high school, Sally Collins, and they were married in 1976.

Steve was always sure that, had Darry had a daughter as opposed to his son, Darrel Shaynne III, he would have gone crazy. Shaynne was what they addressed him as, and he had been born in 1980. Having already practically raised his brothers, and being a man himself, Darry had grown adept at it, and was ready to take a more successful turn. A daughter would throw all of that out of whack, and Steve felt grateful for Darry's good fortune. He didn't deserve more exasperation.

Parking in front of the house, Steve got out of his car and walked slowly up the front steps, dragging his feet. He rapped his knuckles on the door and peaked over his shoulder, always feeling, whenever he was at this house, that he was being watched.

Darry answered the door not long after and greeted him easily. "Come in," he said readily. "You missed our last outing."

Steve nodded. Every Friday night, the remainder of the tight knit gang, now loose and drifted to the four winds, congregated and had dinner and talked, or sometimes varied their activities. That last time, Steve had made the mistake of wading deep into his thoughts and memories—he could not swim back out—and instead he had gone out and purchased a six-pack of beer, which he drank. He hadn't done something like that in so long he couldn't remember, and he never mentioned it to Darry, citing different reasons for missing their get-together.

Either way, Steve realized, it was good to see him.

"Yeah," Steve admitted distractedly, "there was an emergency and I couldn't get out of it in time." Sadly, he noted, it was the truth, in a sense.

Darry nodded understandingly and crossed his arms over his chest, his stance questioning.

"I, uh, wanted to talk to you," Steve offered, stuffing his hands into his pockets and shrugging.

Without missing a beat, Darry glanced over his shoulder and grabbed his jacket. "Sal, I'll be back in an hour."

"Alright," came her muffled reply from the other room.

"Hey, Sally," Steve called.

"Oh, is that you, Steve?"

"Yeah."

She came into the front room with a broom clutched in one hand, a dustpan in the other.

"I see you're hard at work," Steve joked.

"I am, in fact," she replied in a serious voice. "But it's nice to see you. You haven't been around in a while."

She reached out to hug him, and he allowed her to wrap her arms around his chest, seeing as she was shorter than him. They had always gotten along fine.

"Come back soon, Steve," she chided. "You wouldn't want Darry to get lonely, would you?"

Darry coughed and looked pointedly at her, and as Steve dubiously looked at her, he had a feeling that Darry had a very slim chance of getting lonely.

"Bye," Darry said quickly, pecking her on the cheek.

She waved and went back into the room from which she had come.

Darry donned his jacket and ushered Steve out the door.

---

"So you think you lost yourself?"

"Yeah," Steve confirmed. "I should never have forgotten to pretend they weren't egging me on."

"What's so wrong with trying a different approach?"

"Snapping at them?" Steve shook his head, scrunching up his nose in distaste. "That just means they've won."

"Why is that such a bad thing?" Darry sat down on a bench near the fountain in the middle of the park—they had walked, and this was where they had ended up. "Isn't that what you want?"

"What?"

"Well, don't you want them to beat whatever they're there to beat?" Darry shrugged and scratched his chin, watching the water in the fountain splash.

"Yeah, I do," Steve replied quickly. "Of course I do…"

"But you want it your way," Darry observed.

"…Maybe." Steve continued to pace around the fountain. "I just think I said some dumb things after."

"To that kid?"

"Yeah."

Sighing, Darry asked, "And why would you care what you said?"

"They think I'm out to get them, Darry," Steve said incredulously. "I'm not going to beg them to like me."

"You don't need them to like you, Steve. You just need them to trust you."

"You want me to pour my soul out, too. Well, it ain't gonna happen. If you do that, you don't go back."

Darry shook his head. "No. I want you to identify with them. You've been such a private person for so long, maybe it'll even do you some good. You really haven't been yourself at all in years. So much about you changed, it's hard to remember that you and the hot-headed kid who called me Superdope are the same person." He chuckled. "Counsel each other."

"Why should I listen to you?"

"You came to me, Steve," he reminded. "You figure that one out.

"Besides, I wouldn't see why I should trust you, either, if I didn't think you knew what you were doing. Maybe they have a point."

"Maybe… Hey, thanks. I'm still not even sure what made me come." He paused, smiling. "Julie is coming down from Chicago the weekend after next to celebrate Abby's birthday, and make sure I actually get to see her. Andy and Nick might drop by."

"I'm still amazed that you ended up with a grandkid before the rest of us," Darry muttered, grinning. "Or even this…soon."

"Hey, it was the only good thing I got out of settling down," Steve explained. "Three kids and a granddaughter, and maybe a few other illegitimate grandkids, if one of Andy's ex-girlfriends can ever manage to convince him to take a paternity test… Living on the road, in his head, has its perks."

"No offense, buddy, but I'm glad Shaynne has a bit more sense."

"Don't remind me," Steve groaned. "At least he writes."

Darry nodded and laughed. "We sound old."

Steve cocked his head to the side, thinking. "Yeah," he said slowly, "I think we're getting there."

He felt closer to Darry right then than he had in a very long time—perhaps since he was a young teenager and had looked up to him.

"Is Eric going with them?" Darry wondered aloud.

Steve bristled—Darry knew he wasn't fond of his son-in-law, and he personally found it funny; after all, Eric was a good enough guy…to anyone but Steve.

"I think he managed to get some time off o' work," Steve mumbled contemptuously.

"You're going to need to get over that. In the end, you'll realize that he's not so bad."

Steve rolled his eyes and listened to the sloshing sound of the fountain, considering Darry's words.