A disgruntled-looking nurse came into the ward. Mine was the end of a row of six or seven beds, flush against the wall on one side. The nurse scuttled toward me and stopped next to an IV pole and a tray. The tray had about half a dozen pill bottles and a battered copy of Lord of the Flies resting on it.

"Your brother called and is insisting he speak to you on the telephone," she told me. She stared at the paperback. "Interesting choice."

My mouth hung open. For a split second, I was about to ask her to clarify which brother she was referring to. Then I remembered I only had one, nowadays. My jaw snapped shut. "I don't want to," I said.

(And of course it would be Darry, anyways. Soda never pestered._

"You have to. He said you wouldn't want to," said the nurse, "but I have been given explicit instructions and my job depends on it." Her eyes glittered. They were blue – she was pretty.

There was a mustard-colored phone fixed to the wall my bed was against. The nurse spun the dial according to a notecard she took out of her apron pocket. I got a look at the nametag pinned to her clothes – Frances.

Frances forced the receiver into my hand. "I can give you ten minutes," she said.

"I won't need that long," I assured her.

The nurse left and the dial tone buzzed in my ear. I was sickly nervous. It had been months since I'd spoken to Darry, save for the occasional letter. It was easy enough to fabricate and glamorize a handwritten note.

I used to be a good on-the-spot liar. I could make up stories at the drop of a dime. I didn't know what I was good at now.

The dial tone ended abruptly with a sharp click. Darry's gruff voice in my ear – "Yes, hello?"

"Darry?"

Silence. I balled my fist until my knuckles turned as white as the sheet they were clenching.

"Oh, thank god," Darry gushed suddenly. His voice broke into something like a sob. "Do you know the fucking hoops I had to jump through to get you on the phone? Thank god."

"Hi." I couldn't really think of anything more articulate to say. An enormous exhaustion had just settled on my shoulders, and I felt warm and sleepy, like a little kid who had just gotten out of a hot bath. I realized I didn't remember the last time I showered.

"Are you ok?" Darry demanded.

I breathed in too quickly and my lower abdomen twinged. I winced. "Got hurt a bit," I said evasively.

"How bad? The notice didn't say how bad it was. Just that you were out of duty—is that true? What does that mean?" He was frantic, demanding answers faster than I could even think. If there was one thing Darry couldn't stand it was a lack of information.

"Yeah, its true," I mumbled.

"True that its bad or true that you're out?" Darry pressed.

I halted, breath stilted in the middle of an exhale. How bad? I don't know. I was all numbed up with who-knows-what. Bad was how it felt to be shot twice in the gut, but I couldn't remember that, now. Not from my own perspective, at least. I had this third-person recollection that was completely devoid of sensory and emotional detail.

"Both," I said.

Another beat of silence. "And they're sending you home?"

"Yes."

Darry made this deep, guttural groaning noise. He sounded so full of grief and relief that it alarmed me, made my head fuzzy, because of how long it had been since I'd felt something so strongly. My mind – dulled and jaded as it had become – could not wrap itself around such a clearly expressed emotion.

It took me a moment to realize he was muttering the Our Father. "Darry," I almost laughed, "what are you doing? When's the last time you went to church?"

"When?" Darry demanded, ignoring me.

"As soon as I'm healed up, I s'pose." I realized I had been smiling without knowing it. My entire face hurt.

Suddenly, I remembered something from another life time. I don't know how I recalled it, or why it was so important, but I needed to know. "Hey, Darry," I said, "did you ever end up callin Sandy?" Somehow, after nearly a year, I had regained my ability to engage in casual conversation.

A beat passed. Darry seemed unwilling to abandon the critical nature of the situation. "You never answered my question about how bad," he said, voice low. "You said bad. Not how bad. C'mon, Pony. Tell me."

His voice was wrought with desperation and exhaustion. I remembered something mom used to say when we were kids – it's like pulling teeth. The most clear example that came to mind was Darry, who refused to drink cough syrup well into junior high. He didn't like the taste. It's like pulling TEETH, mom would say.

"I…" my voice trailed. The IV line inserted to the crook of my elbow started to burn and itch. I remembered Darry putting his fist through the wall when the officer came to our doorstep with the folded flag. "I'm ok. I got shot twice but I'm ok."

"Fucking Christ," Darry hissed.

"I'm ok," I repeated. It was important that I sad it. In the weeks after Soda died I refused to say what had happened out loud. I deluded myself into thinking that I alone had the power to speak events into existence. If I walked around saying, Soda is dead, how could he come back?

There had been a period, a long one, when I thought he would. Come back, I mean.

Anyways. It was critical that I assured Darry, verbally, that I was ok. It was important that he heard it.

"I'll be fine. I actually got lucky," – or so I had been told by every nurse I'd seen. I hated the idea, but for Darry's sake, I went along with it. "They called it a million dollar wound. I get to go home, but I'll recover. I'll just have a little scar."

There was a beat of incredulous silence. "A big scar," I conceded. "Two big scars."

Darry took a loud, wet, breath, "Oh, Jesus, kiddo –"

Nurse Francine materialized in the doorway. She tapped an imaginary wristwatch, looking apologetic.

"Listen, Dar," I cut him off. "I gotta go. Time's up. I'll see you real soon."

"Bullshit, 'time's up'," Darry growled.

"No, Darry, really. It is." I stared at the nurse, helpless.

She smiled kindly. "Tell your brother you'll see him in three weeks."

My jaw slackened. The nurse told me she had spoken to my doctor and the army discharge coordinator. My heart began pounding viciously. Three weeks. That was no time at all – I'd been here for nearly ten months.

"Ponyboy? Hello?"

I told Darry I would see him in three weeks. He went silent for a moment, but apparently this new timeline satisfied him, because he let me hang up without incident. I handed the receiver back to the nurse.

"Didn't that make you feel better?" she asked me. I told her I didn't know how it made me feel, exactly.

A/N:

Thanks for the reviews on last chap! Please leave more, they make my day;)