It's been awhile. I deleted the last chapter I updated this with because it was sloppy and not where I wanted to go with this story. Cliff-hanger at the end. Sorry it's been a year and a half since updating. Enjoy! (Side note: I have no idea why the text is so small? My apologies, I also don't know how to fix it lol)

I walked into my house for the first time in what felt like ages. The unfamiliar, stoic loneliness in it practically hitting me in the face. With my parents death vanished the homey, welcoming presence that embodied a carefree time in everyone's lives. When it was just Soda, Pony, and I to pick up the pieces, the house carried a degree of melancholy effort that wasn't hard to distinguish. It spoke of our willingness to try and make things normal again. I grew in this house, both physically and mentally. I took my first steps in the living room, celebrated Christmases and birthdays with my family, and could once relinquish in the safety it provided me. Now, standing with tears down my face and a frantic desire to get in and get out, it couldn't feel more foreign to me.

Knowing that Pony's condition had worsened beyond discernible recognition worried me. Knowing that Sodapop was wearing himself considerably thin with distress pulled at my heart. I loved them both, beyond comprehensible description. When I thought of Pony's desperate attempts to call for help, a lump grew in my throat. When I thought of the betrayed sadness in Soda's eyes when I kicked him out of the hospital, I hated myself. I was so torn, grasping at straws to figure out the right thing to do. In all reality, I was as scared and unknowing as the next person.

I grabbed a canvas bag off of the floor of Ponyboy and Sodapop's room and tucked a few items of clothing in it. Pony didn't own much; only what we could afford and what he could convince me he wanted. Most of the time, he argued that he didn't need much to get along. He was fine with a few shirts and a pair of jeans if it meant that Soda and I didn't need to work any longer than necessary to afford it. Certain luxuries could be forgotten about to Pony. Although I never found the pride to tell him that, I appreciated his selfless efforts to keep us afloat.

I stuck a few books in the bag, as well. Although the doctor had relayed the crucial idiosyncracies that must be followed in accordance to having a concussion to me, I knew that the familiarity of his own belongings would bring solace to Pony given the position he was in. Odds were that he had read The Adventures of Tom Sawyer and Grapes of Wrath enough to fight the urge to want to read them again, anyway.

I took a deep, shaky breath. In that moment, I wished more than anything that I could pack up Pony's room and bring it all to him. The daunting complexity of the whirring and whizzing machines he was tied to scared him and I knew it. Having me there brought him some level of comfort, but we didn't always agree with each other and it certainly didn't make all of his worries subside. Regardless, I was the person responsible for his healthcare and wellbeing, despite our somewhat bristled relationship. I was there to call the shots, to take the necessary steps in order to keep Ponyboy safe from this point on. I hated that I had to be the one to do this, but felt an overwhelming sense of responsibility to shield Pony from anything else that could harm him. Legally, I was delegated to care for Pony. To my brothers and the gang, I possessed the ability to solve any problem, to absolve any rough patches. To be honest, I didn't know which one weighed heavier on my shoulders.

I thought of the doctor's simple rationalization to Pony's condition. Four to five weeks in the hospital felt like a sure lifetime. Not to mention the time allocated for Pony to miss school, Soda and I to constantly miss work, and the countless bills that would only grow greater and greater. I sat on Sodapop and Ponyboy's bed, fighting the urge to scream on the top of my damn lungs. To say I was frustrated, to say I wished that this wasn't our life, to say that I could turn back time was an understatement. The cards were always stacked against our family, it seemed. As if the universe decided to dig our hole deeper and deeper, for the sheer enjoyment of watching us struggle. I wanted to shout to the Heavens, "Isn't this enough? Can we have a moment to breathe?", but concluded that I knew the answer to those questions and would look pretty foolish in the process.

I wallowed in my self-pity for a little longer before I could no longer linger in our empty house. Knowing that Pony and Soda wouldn't be coming back here turned my stomach. I was instantly placed back into the whirlwind of panic that I had been when my parents died; waiting and wishing for something that could never be, wanting them to come home but knowing that it wasn't going to happen. I hastily grabbed some of my belongings, cleaned a few dishes that were already past the point of vile fermentation, and headed back to the hospital. I wanted to sleep, to shower, and to clear my mind, but knew that any attempt would be futile. Anywhere my brothers were was where I needed to be. No force on earth could give me peace of mind in this situation. I was inevitably drawn to wherever they were. I needed them as much as they needed me.

Headlights blurred and lines on the road faded as I made the drive back to the hospital. Pony's words played in my head constantly, as a form of torture that stung like a slap, a lasting reminder of my negligence and stupidity. I thought I was going to die. I thought that they were going to kill me. Every syllable, every word smoldering itself into my mind. My wildest imagination could conceive the bitter isolation and pure freight that my baby brother must have felt as he laid in the dirt. That killed me more than anything. Every time I revisited the sentiment, another piece of me was chipped away. I had failed Pony, failed Soda, and failed my parents in so many ways. More than I could ever apologize for, as far as I was concerned.

It was 10 o'clock and the hospital was fairly quiet. I had become a common fixture to the receptionist nurse between my frequent trips to the payphone, so she let me pass with a smile and no redundant protocols. I nodded gratefully and made my way down the hall to my brother.

I opened the door and Two-Bit turned back to me. "Gee, you look worse than when you left!" he snorted. I rolled my eyes, but he didn't quit. "Did you run a race or somethin'?" I glanced in the tiny mirror hanging up on the wall and winced at my reflection. My blue eyes were completely bloodshot - partly from exhaustion and partly from crying, my hair was in every direction, I had deep, thick purple bags under my eyes, and I had a beard that made me look years older than twenty. It wasn't the prettiest sight to see, but that was reality. Hardly is it ever pretty, I assumed. At least for us.

I shook my head at his attempts to cheer my up. I appreciated Two-Bit's friendship and genuine attempts to make the situation lighter, but my heart and mind were not in the right place to entertain his jokes. "Any changes?" I asked around him to Sodapop and Johnny. Steve was passed out on the bed next to Pony's. I had a firsthand recollection of the bed's cheap quality and uncomfortability but, my God, if that kid didn't look like he was getting the best sleep of his life in that moment.

Soda craned his head around towards me. His eyes were puffy, traces of tears evident with the unchanged condition of Pony despite everyone's optimism. His hands had been smeared through his hair too many times and it was considerably messy. It tore him to pieces to see Pony like this. Being helpless only accentuated it. I handed him the bag full of clothes. He pulled out the books and placed them on the small desk with Pony's possessions. Next to the pocket knife and a crumpled movie ticket.

"How…" Soda began. "Just… how can someone do this? Stab him and leave him there for dead?" He stared at the dark purple and blue bruises covering Pony's cheeks, neck, and eyes. I knew that asking those questions was useless, that trying to find answers when there weren't any just led to frustrated. Two-Bit walked over and slung an arm around Soda's neck, giving him a hug.

"We don't know, buddy. But we'll make the sorry sons-of-bitches pay for what they did." Soda scoffed once in a way that wasn't funny. He shook his head and clutched Ponyboy's foot. Anything else was sure to cause him pain and he looked decently content as he slept in a medically-induced state, despite his gruesome appearance that would point to anything otherwise.

"Do we know anything?" Soda asked. Nobody responded. I had advised Two-Bit and Steve to keep the news of Ponyboy's condition quiet until I had the time to explain it to Sodapop. He should have to hear it from me. I owe him that. Who knows what Soda would've done if he had heard anything from the doctors or nurses? Punch them in the head? Soda looked around at the silent room, his eyes boring into me. "Well?"

As much as I trusted and loved the gang, I wanted to talk to Soda privately. Because I knew that he wouldn't take it lightly and because I had to tread carefully, I needed the quiet. My head was swarming with thoughts and convictions, fears and disbelief. I could barely keep my mind screwed together. Looking into Soda's forlorn face and surrendered demeanor, I realized that I had no explanation, no comforting news that would lighten how he felt. More than anything, I wanted to send him right back home, where I would've thought he would be safest. Being in that house and constantly reminded of everything I couldn't do - everything I didn't do - convinced me that he needed to be right here. I may have been a shitty brother to Pony in those moments where he needed me most, but I owed it to the both of them to do what was best now.

"C'mere, Soda," I said, waving him into the hallway towards me. He rose from his seat, never taking his eyes off of Ponyboy.

I leaned into Two-Bit, who was propped against the doorway of the room. "Close the door behind me," I whispered. Soda was sensitive and expressive. He cared so much and reacted so quickly that he often couldn't account for the way he reacted in certain situations. When we got the news about our parents, he was completely inconsolable. I tried and I tried to surmise the right words to help, but he was all emotion. He felt everything to its upmost extent. I knew that hearing of Ponyboy's worsened state would only further ignite his feelings of self-hatred and desperation. But he deserved to hear the truth and I couldn't bear to keep him in the dark. So I told him.

Soda walked out in front of me, looking years younger than normal. The door shut with a click behind us and we stood in the hallway, awkward under the lights. I explained what the doctor said in vague detail, as to lessen the blow of bad news. I recounted the rehabilitation experience, how Pony jumped into it eagerly and how his pain was evident. How the ordeal had made it apparent to the doctor that his recovery process needed to be extended, likely in the hospital to monitor for long-term physical damage. I ended the shpeal with a half-hearted reminder to not give up hope, that Ponyboy was young and his body resilient enough to handle the physical damage that it had been caused.

Sodapop nodded every time I made a point, sinking in the information. I could see him retreating further and further within himself, not wanting to believe that things hadn't gotten even a little better, but fairly worse. I put my hand on his shoulder, which he promptly shrugged out of.

"How long will he be here?" he finally asked. His pain exuded through his words and tears glazed over his wide, chocolate brown eyes. I wanted to lie, to tell him that I simply didn't know, but knew that it wouldn't be as finite and concrete as the bitter truth.

"Four to five weeks. Maybe more. The doctor isn't sure what kind of progress there is to be made, if any," I explained.

"So things can get worse?" he asked, knowing the answer.

I exhaled, preparing myself for the mental toll of my answer. "Yes, Sodapop. There is a possibility that things will get worse."

"What do we do then? What are we supposed to expect?" He was becoming frantic. Nobody likes to be clueless. The situation left us all so vulnerable, so subject to more tragedy. We were slowly losing our minds with the lack of information we so desperately craved.

"There's nothing else we can do but wait," I said bleakly. "From what I can tell, physical competence and mental engagement is what they're looking for. But we can't push him past his limits. Any stress to his mind or body can do more bad than good."

"He doesn't want to be here," Soda protested. "Every time he wakes up, all he can talk about is going home. Can't they just send him home?"

I shook my head. "Unfortunately, they don't think that's the best place for him right now and there's not much else we can do about it."

Soda took a step back with shock. "So they're blaming us?"

"No, that's not exact-"

"And you're just, what, accepting it?" he asked, betrayal lacing itself between his words. "You think he's better off here?"

"What else do you want me to do? In the physical state he's in, Soda, yes. He has been beaten and needs to recover," I explained, but Soda refused. He was stubborn as all hell and could not comprehend a point he didn't want to understand. Obviously, if it were up to me, Pony would be well enough to be taken home. Hell, he wouldn't be in this situation in the first place. But I had to look at things for what they were, not for what they had the potential to be.

"I can't just sit around here and not help him, Dar," Sodapop pleaded, his voice raising higher. "You don't under-"

I interjected, raising the conversation in volume. "I understand fully, Soda. This isn't the worst that things could be. We should be lucky that he is alive." I spoke sternly and bluntly. If we were looking at all of the facts, we could all agree that, in a few weeks time, Ponyboy would be on the road to a full recovery. That was a fair possibility in all of this, despite the risks. Sodapop was so black-and-white, so one-way-or-the-other, that he couldn't allow his mind to digest this small fact.

"Don't say that to me, Darry!" Soda retorted. "Saying 'we should be lucky that he is alive'. I'm his brother, too! You won't let me be here and you force me to leave but you forget that I'm his brother, too!"

I stood there, quiet and dumbfounded, scrambling to find a decent answer to Soda's very blatant argument. Sodapop lowered his voice and took a step towards me.

"When I saw the blood, I thought he was gone. I thought it was mom and dad all over again. When I come in here and I see him like this, when I see my baby brother in a hospital bed hooked up to God-knows-what, I have no idea what's going on. I worry. Whether or not you say he'll be okay, I worry," he says. "When you tell me that he needs to stay here longer, that there's something wrong but that the doctor doesn't know what, I worry. So please, stop with the I-don't-knows and the maybe-but-maybe-nots because you're driving me insane, Dar." Tears were falling slowly down his face now. I went to hug him, but he didn't return the favor. He stood weakly as I embraced him.

"And please, for the love of all things Holy, do not send me home again," Soda said into my chest. "Because I cannot be in that place without my brothers." His voice cracked and, in that brief moment, I knew exactly how he felt. And I would be lying if I said it didn't make me feel like complete and utter shit.

"I won't, Soda," I said.

"Good, because I'll have to fight you next time," he said, half-joking. A smile spread on his face that didn't meet his eyes, and I knew he was trying to make the situation lighter. I managed a weak smile, which probably resembled a polite grimace at best.

Just then, the door opened slightly. Two-Bit stuck his neck out and looked at us. Glory, had we must've been a sight for sore eyes. We were both hysterical, tired out of our minds, and frantic.

"Not that I didn't want to interrupt this heartfelt moment," he said slyly, still hellbent on spreading his uplifting humor. "But the little guy just woke up. He's asking for you both."

Soda lifted his eyebrows, ready to bound in the door. He had sat for hours as Pony slept, torturing himself.

"But you may wanna clean up a bit," Two-Bit said in a half-whisper. "You're gonna scare the hell out of him."

We both had to laugh at that one. Soda grabbed the handle of the door and we both walked in the door. Pony's appearance hadn't changed, but he looked alright.

I swear to God that he looked alright.

Thank you for coming back. I'm sorry for the wait - it's inexcusable, really. I decided that I may wrap this story up soon and start another Outsiders one. I am unclear of the direction that I initially wanted to write it in and my writing skills as an 18 year old are much different (and hopefully better) from when I was 15 years old when I started this. I hope you enjoyed the chapter. I will be updating this one every few days because I have a lot of time right now. As always, review and, as always, all rights go to S.E. Hinton.