December 17th, 1968 - Afternoon

"What?"

Ponyboy could hardly believe him. Mark stood there expectantly, staring at him like he would just agree and take up his offer. Like he was some idiot who did everything that he asked.

"I'm not doing it. I'm not going up there again." he said, shaking his head and shoving the gun back into Mark's hands, looking for a way out. Much to his disappointment, it was raining steadily now, and he'd for sure catch pneumonia or something if he walked home. But he didn't have a ride, and the next bus stop was a quarter of a mile away. He felt like a lab rat trapped in some evil, twisted maze.

Mark narrowed his eyes and glanced back at the downpour. "You plannin' on going anywhere else by foot with this squall goin' on?"

He had a pretty good point. The wind had picked up and Ponyboy could hear it howling from underneath the overhang. Damn the weather! The one day it actually rained, he had to go somewhere. If it were any other day, he was sure that it would be sunny. Mark was holding out that stupid gun again, which was quickly becoming current bane of his existence. He had a sly look on his face, as if he already knew that he'd won this argument. And he had.

"Can't I just wait in the lobby while you do your shit?" Ponyboy tried, the smallest ounce of desperation leaking into his voice. He had no desire to go back into that apartment, much less if there was a party going on. Mark shook his head and motioned to him with the gun again, waving it around as if it weren't a lethal weapon.

"No can do. You help me, I drive you home. That's my deal." he said, sounding he was making a sales pitch. Ponyboy's eyebrows knit together and he shook his head again.

"I'll just wait until it lets up."

Mark shot him a look. "You think these guys are going to want a greaser-looking kid like you hanging around their nice apartment lobby? They'll kick you out for loitering. That, and it don't look like it's gonna let up anytime soon."

Why was he so good at being convincing? Ponyboy glanced up at the sky. The clouds were darkening more and more by the minute, making it look later than it really was. It was darker than it should be for four o'clock, and rain fell slantingly toward the ground, the sound of raindrops hitting cement filling his ears. He glanced behind him at the lady behind the front counter of the apartment building. The apartments were pretty upper middle-class, so Mark did have a point there. She was giving them both the stink-eye. Fact was, he had dropped his greaser look a long time ago, but either way, Mark's reasoning held true. The lady sure didn't look like she thought highly of them.

Mark was obviously getting impatient, his foot tapping against the pavement. "It's a good deal," he said, "you'll catch your death out here, it's so cold. It'll just be a simple in and out and I'll drive you home."

Ponyboy nervously wrung his wrists together, staring out at the rain that was falling in perfect droplets on a nearby puddle. Frost and small intricate designs of ice formed at the edges of the puddle, signifying just how cold it was in the freezing late afternoon. He would surely catch something if he stayed out here any longer. His teeth were already starting to chatter and his fingers felt like they were frozen off. But wait—he could call Darry… no, he couldn't. Darry would get suspicious of whatever racket Mark was running when he found them both at this place. He would ask a million questions. That wasn't an option for him. Out of solutions and places to turn to, he finally complied.

"This is the last time," Ponyboy warned him in a low voice that was foreign to his usual indifferent demeanor, "that I ever do something like this for you again." He snatched the gun from Mark sharply and stuck it back into his jeans, glowering at Mark. Mark ignored his surly expression, carrying on with his plan as if he hadn't even cared about what Pony had to say.

"So, I'm thinkin' there's a party going on up there," Mark reiterated as he pushed the button on the elevator to go up. Ponyboy stuck his hands into his jacket pockets, trying to warm them back up again, and gave Mark a sidelong glance filled with distaste. He felt like he was doing this all against his own will, which he was, but Mark had a way about him to convince you to do the most idiotic thing and make it seem like it wasn't that big of a deal. Which was exactly what he had just tricked him into. Ponyboy was beginning to realize that likable people with a lot of charm were probably the most dangerous kind of people, because their favorable personalities pressured or convinced people to do things they wouldn't normally do. Hence the spider web that he found himself tangled into now.

"More people doing drugs and things like that," Mark rattled off, "so, you know, they'll be wary 'nd stuff. So don't spook them."

"Like they're scared animals, sure," Ponyboy said with half-hearted humor. Mark seemed to have found it funny, though. He grinned wryly at him and trained his eyes on the small floor counter that ticked up until they reached floor three. The elevator door opened and they stepped onto that hotel-like carpet with an unsightly pattern on it. Pony stared down the hall and immediately knew which apartment they were going to—the music was audible through the door and the whole hall leading up to said door had the unmistakable smell of grass throughout it. Pony wondered why and how the police weren't wise to these guys yet because all of this was so painfully blatant.

They walked down to the same apartment door. Mark knocked—strange pattern, of course—and there was a loud crash from inside and then some shuffling around. Ponyboy bit down hard on the inside of his cheek and tapped his foot nervously against the dark carpet of the hallway. It took a few moments, but the door cracked slightly and the pale blue eye that had popped up last time he'd been here appeared once more. "Who are you?" a cautious, slurring voice asked.

"Davis and Jerry. You know us." Mark answered loftily. The pale blue eye squinted and then the door closed, the chain came undone, and the door opened fully, revealing the strange lanky guy that had answered the door before. Pony followed Mark into the absolute cacophony of noise that had enveloped the small two-bedroom apartment, his eardrums buzzing.

As he entered the room, he was immediately hit with the sharp smell of grass, so much of it that it blocked out almost all of his other senses. It was so pungent he could taste it. That, and the Byrds song that was cranked to the loudest decibel possible from the record player was just about shattering his eardrums. The room was strangely colored, with big rainbow Christmas lights strewn about the dark corners of the room. The lights looked fuzzy through the thick smoke that danced in their dim illumination. There were people sitting on the ground and on the sofa, smoking out of these big objects shaped like huge vases that had holes on one side. The smell of weed in the hippie house didn't even compare to the smell here, which just about swallowed him whole. He was pretty sure that just standing in that house was getting him stoned.

"Could they turn that music down?" he yelled over to Mark, trying to make his voice audible over the droning guitar of the song. He felt a funny vibrating sensation in his ears from the amount of noise. It was so loud in the room that they had to yell.

"I don't know!" Mark yelled back, but Pony could tell that he was enjoying it. He looked around, his vision veiled by the dancing tendrils of smoke that billowed in front of him. As he was looking around, trying to make sense of the amount of color he saw and noises he was hearing, he bumped into some long-haired guy's shoulder. The longhair turned around and gave him a quizzical look, which gave him the small opening to ask him a question. "Hey, man, what's all this music you're playing?"

"Strange Land, man. It's art." The longhair had a nasally sounding voice, which he could just barely make out, and a very lazy-eyed stare. Ponyboy couldn't hear him too well over the amount of music and voices that swallowed the room. He stared at him for a moment, trying to piece together what he had just said, and then gave up, turning away. He focused his attention on the lanky guy who was now conversing with Mark about their deal.

"Come on, man, I'm a little short on money, but I'll pay you back next week!" the lanky guy said, trying to sound formal but failing miserably. It was obvious he was half in the bag, his words all bleeding together and his eyes tinted red. Mark didn't look too pleased with him, saying he had to go great lengths to get that stuff and he wanted what it was worth.

"I can't give you a discount, Billy. It takes me an awful lot of work to get my hands on this and–"

The lanky guy, whom Pony now suspected his name was Billy, cut Mark off. "It's a party, Davis! Don't you wanna mellow out and have a party? Fifty bucks, even. I'll get the remainder of the ten dollars for you next week. Good deal?" Billy stuck out his hand for Mark to shake, but Mark shook his head and turned around, pocketing what Billy was going to pay for. Billy's face fell instantly. "No deal," he explained simply. "All the money now or no deal."

It was obvious Billy was getting nervous, by the strange and wild look that suddenly flashed behind the pale blue depths of his eyes. Ponyboy was getting nervous himself. He shouldn't have to stand here with all of these dopers around him, stand here with a gun in his pocket, just because Mark told him to. Gaining a small flicker of confidence, he finally declared that he wanted out.

"This is crazy, Mar– I mean, Davis. I'm leaving." His voice cut through the loud guitar solo on the record player. Mark shot him a pleading look, telling him to just shut up and stay with his eyes, but Ponyboy wasn't having any of it. Mark could get into his own trouble on his own time. He didn't have to stand here and take this. He started to turn and go, stepping over the scattered litter on the apartment floor, but Billy suddenly pointed a waving finger at him and said, "Narc!"

For once, even Mark looked unnerved. "Billy, keep it cool. He's not a–"

The next few moments were really a blur, what with the people getting up and getting defensive, but the cool demeanor of the small group of people flew right out the window along with their sanity. The music stopped short, the record making a zipping noise as somebody pulled the needle over the grooves of it. Some people looked like they wanted to beat him up, the others looked unbothered, others looked plain scared. All eyes were suddenly on him. Billy stood in front of him, wild-eyed, saying over and over again, "Narc! Narc!"

Ponyboy stuck up his hands like a person who'd just committed a crime, but then caught Mark's eye. There was a look in his eyes that said, don't do anything. Mark slowly walked over to him and pulled out the pistol he'd been hiding, making Ponyboy remember he had a gun of his own. He wanted to reach for it, but his hands seemed to be frozen in the air, as the rest of his body felt.

"They have guns! They're narcs!" Billy's sanity was totally thrown to the wind, yelling like some detained rabid animal. Mark had the gun pointed at Billy, the barrel in perfect line with his forehead, but Ponyboy saw out of the corner of his eye that the safety was still on. Mark's thumb hovered over the safety like he was about to click it off. It was obvious the gun was just an empty threat, and Pony let out a small sigh. He wasn't in much of a mood to see anybody get shot. He was extremely still, watching the action unfurl in front of him like he was in a front-stage seat at a matinee. He didn't pull out his gun. He just stood there like an idiot with both hands raised in the air, his eyes trained on the tip of that gun and Mark's thumb.

"You're going to let us leave," Mark said calmly, "and you will pay me back next week. Good deal?"

Billy seemed to finally notice that he had a gun pointed at him, and copied Pony's movement, putting his arms in the air and saying, "I didn't mean anything. I'll pay, I swear." This was like some sort of hold-up action movie that Ponyboy saw down at the Circle Cinema. He wished wildly to go home. He would be happy being grounded at this point, be happy to have Darry yell his head off, if it meant that he never had to come near this place again…

"Po- Jerry, go." Mark motioned with his head backwards, breaking him out of his daze. Mark was careful not moving his field of vision from Billy, still holding the gun in his hands. Ponyboy dropped his arms to his sides and backed up slowly, out the door, and then waited in the hall for Mark to get out. His heart was beating against his chest so hard that he could feel it in his temples, but relief started to wash over him. He watched as Mark backed up too, still holding the pistol in his hands, still making sure that it was aimed right at Billy. As soon as he came out of the door, Mark started running. Ponyboy stood in the hall behind him, confused as to why he was now seemingly running for his life. Mark turned back to look at him and yelled, "What're you standing there like an idiot for? Move it!"

The door to the apartment opened and Billy came out, along with a group of other stoners, all yelling, "Narcs!" Ponyboy felt his eyes get round around the edges, his fight-or-flight kicking in instantly, and he ran down the hall, thankful for all of his track practice. He could outpace these guys, because most of them were too high on drugs to run in a perfectly straight line. Mark flung open the door to the fire-escape stairwell and they hurried down the steps, trying to get as far away from the group of angry people that were now chasing them like pack rats as possible. This is insane, Ponyboy thought as he ran, I thought shit like this only happened in the movies.

He managed to run faster than Mark did, pulling ahead as the both of them flew down the steps of the front entrance. He pulled the pistol out of his jeans and aimed it back at the figures that were now appearing behind him, the cold rain on his face driving into his skin like tiny little glass shards. Rain soaked through every piece of his clothing until he was cold to the bone, water streaming down the bridge of his nose. Catching pneumonia from the rain was the least of his worries right now. The rain didn't even matter to him right now. He was too high on adrenaline to even notice the hard rain droplets that poured onto his face like tiny stones.

"Go down the alley, Ponyboy!" he heard Mark scream behind him, "go down that alleyway!"

He looked around frantically for said alleyway, and found it, stealing glances back at the people that seemed to materialize in the foggy rain behind him. He kept the gun pointed behind him, though he knew the finger that laid on the trigger would never actually squeeze. He couldn't shoot anybody. He just couldn't. He had far too many morals, even if the person was holding him at gunpoint and if it were a matter of his own life, to shoot anybody. He couldn't imagine the amount of guilt that would follow him forever if he shot anybody.

The alley was shadowy and dark, the kind that looked foggy and so pitch-black that you couldn't tell where it started and where it ended. His shoes slipped on the slick ground that was starting to ice over, his heart pounding, as he turned down the alleyway. He shot a desperate glance behind him as more shadowy figures of people cleared in the fog as they got closer to him. The gun in his hands was smooth metal—and his hands were soaking wet. Making a desperate last fumble to keep the gun in his palms, he stumbled as he tried to catch it, but it slipped right through his fingers and fell to the ground behind him with an echoing clatter. He paused, his steps slowing down, his adrenaline falling, as he glanced back at the small figure of the .22 pistol that lay a few feet away from him on the cold hard cement. He was planning on going back for it, but then he looked up and saw how close the remaining shadowy figure was to him, and he kept running. No use in going back for the gun now. This was like he was living a nightmare of his, running from shadowy figures for his life. He ran even faster as the footsteps grew closer, but then they suddenly stopped, as if the perpetrator had given up on the chase.

He ran for a few more paces and then stopped as well, looking back to see why they had suddenly stopped chasing him. He thought he was free for a good few seconds, already starting to bask in the relief that he'd get to live another day, but then those reliefs disappeared with the rain as he stared down the black barrel of his own twenty-two that he'd so stupidly dropped on the ground, fully loaded. Billy stood behind the gun, the safety off, his finger on the trigger. Pony couldn't make out his face in the dim light and the driving rain, but he knew for a fact that he was looking at a lead-bullet loaded gun.

He opened his mouth and closed it, like a fish without water. Slowly, his arms began to reach for the sky, his palms facing up, as if Billy were a police officer and he'd just committed a felony. He squeezed his eyes shut as a loud gunshot rang out in the eerie quiet of the alley, scaring the birds out of the nearby trees, cracking through the air as if it were a bolt of lightning. He waited for the searing pain, and waited to drop dead. His whole life flashed before his eyes, and he started thinking about all of his wrongdoings, how badly he wanted to apologize to Darry, how sorry he was for being a pain in the ass all of these years. But the fact was that Darry would never hear his apology because he was about to be a bloody mess on the ground of this random alley and his brothers would have to go to his funeral. He wondered if Darry would miss him, and then kicked himself. Of course Darry would miss him… but then he realized he'd been wondering too long to be dead yet.

His eyes cracked open, looking around, wondering what the gunshot was. He searched himself mentally for any pain or any wounds, and found none.

Confused, he opened his eyes fully, searching around for what had made the noise. Billy still stood in front of him, gun aimed at him, though he looked strange and sickly white, like there was something wrong with him. Pony studied his white face and then his eyes drifted down to Billy's stomach, and he almost wanted to revolt. There was a clean hole straight through the left side of Billy's stomach, his clothes stained red. Billy opened his mouth as if to say something, but his voice gurgled and died in his throat. The gun fell out of Billy's hands first, and then Ponyboy watched in complete and utter horror as a red liquid trickled out of the corner of Billy's mouth, and then he dropped onto the ground like a ton of bricks. Red pooled under him but was quickly washed away by the still-falling rains, down the big storm drain. He was dead.

Ponyboy froze up like he had done the night Bob was killed in the park, nausea rising in his throat. He'd already seen three people die right in front of him… but now a fourth? His vision struggled to focus, and he saw Mark standing behind Billy, a gun in his hands, frozen. Nobody was around. The crowd had dispersed before Billy's death, which meant they had no witnesses. Not again, Ponyboy thought miserably, not another Windrixville. I don't think I could do that again.

"Did you… you shoot him?" Pony asked, his breath catching in his throat as he spoke the words. Mark nodded mutely and dropped his pistol, the weapon falling next to Billy's body with a clatter. He had a stony and slightly nervous look in his golden eyes, though he didn't look sickened. He just looked like this was all business.

"He had it coming," Mark said unsympathetically, staring down at the dead body in front of him as if he hadn't just shot the guy to death, "all crazy like that. Come on, let's get outta here." Mark's golden eyes were troubled and had a trace of guilt and sorrow in their depths, but he was trying to play it off like he didn't care all that much. It was obvious he was shook up too, because his hands were trembling and his pupils were oddly large.

Ponyboy stood there, his jaw agape, his eyes wide at the amount of indifference that Mark had. He'd just killed somebody and he didn't look like he cared too much about it, despite the wideness of his eyes. And that's when it hit him—Mark didn't have any sense of what was right and what wasn't. The thing that had stopped Ponyboy from shooting all of the dopers chasing him were his morals, his sense of being a follower of the law. Mark didn't have any morals, he didn't follow the law. He just killed a man in straight cold blood without blinking an eye, just pulled the trigger and ended a life like that. Mark didn't follow the law; he thought doing what he pleased was just a given. It was then that it occurred to Pony that Mark was no better than Dallas Winston—hell, he was probably even worse.

"The police!" Ponyboy croaked out in a high, unnatural voice. "The police will find us and… and it'll be all over." He was freezing, but he barely felt the cold or the rain against his skin. His whole mind was centered on the dead person in front of him.

Mark shot him a swift glance and seemed to think about that for a moment. Pony could practically hear him thinking. "No, they won't… I know a solution."

Mark bent down and pocketed the gun that he'd used. He took the pistol that Billy had been holding from off of the cement, picked up Billy's cold, dead hand, and stuck the gun into his palm, making it out to look like Billy had shot himself in the stomach. Ponyboy watched the whole thing through a telescope, rain pouring down on him, his hair sticking to his face. He was in a half-state of shock at the point, numbly staring at the whole crime that had just been committed in front of him. It felt like he was in some awful dream and he half expected to wake up in his own bed, but he knew this wasn't a dream. The rain was too cold for it to be a dream. He could tell Mark felt bad about it, though, because he had a strange look on his face as he put the gun into Billy's hand. Not regret—just plain strange.

"There." Mark got up and grimaced at his handiwork for a moment, and then turned to Pony. "The rain will wash off my fingerprints. Let's get outta here. I'm freezing."

Mark started walking away, but Ponyboy still stood in the middle of the alley, staring at the dead guy in front of him. Oddly enough, he felt sad about his death, despite this guy wanting to gun him down. He got that strange pain in his throat that you get when you're about to cry and swallowed thickly. The rain felt like blood and tears, driving into his skin like fragmented shards of a broken window. He couldn't think. He couldn't move.

"Curtis!" Mark yelled once he figured out that Pony wasn't following him. Ponyboy broke out of his stupor, turning his head slowly to look at the delinquent that had just killed a man in front of him. "Snap out of it, man! He's wasted! Let's get out of here before someone sees us!"

He swallowed again. "What about all of those people? They knew we had guns!" Ponyboy called back, worry leaking into his voice. "They'll know it was us!"

Mark laughed, almost looking like he belonged in the loony bin, and shook his head. "They were too high. They won't remember a single detail of our faces if the police asked them. Stop worrying and get over here."

I don't know, Pony thought, Mark's hair sticks out like a flame on a matchstick. Golden hair was pretty memorable to him. But despite his worries, he sighed and conceded to leave the dead guy alone. It was a strange feeling. He almost felt reluctant to leave him alone.

Ponyboy shot one last look at the body in front of him, mouthed the words 'I'm sorry,' and shot off like a bolt of lightning, running past Mark, with the sole intention to run forever. He didn't think he could take it. He hadn't killed him… but Billy's life just ended so easily, without even a second thought. It was absolutely insane to him how one stupid bullet could just knock the life out of somebody. He was slowly realizing that the concept of life was a lot more fragile than he'd previously thought.

Mark watched him run off like a bat out of hell and called after him. "Curtis. Hey—stop running and let me talk to you!"

Ponyboy spun around, his eyes wide and full of disbelief. "Mark! I don't want to talk to you ever again! Go on, get out of here!"

Mark caught up to him, caught his breath, and stuck out his hand like he was making a truce. "He was gonna kill you, man. It was either you or him and I sure wasn't picking him. It was self defense—even if we get called to the station the police will understand. Come on, man. I promise I won't ever drag you into this again."

Drag him into this again? "You mean, after all of this," Pony said slowly, not wanting to believe him, "you're still going to sell drugs?"

Mark blinked at him like he had just asked him an idiotic question. "Well, yeah. Money's money. Plus, I never pressured any of them into it. It's not my fault he's dead."

Pony just stared.

"Come on, man. We're friends, right? If we weren't friends, d'you think I would've shot that guy for you? Come on." Mark shook his extended hand, waiting for him to shake on it. Ponyboy stared long and hard at Mark, trying to see past whatever facade that he was putting up, but found it awfully hard to see a two-faced person behind those gold eyes of his. They looked sympathetic—a telltale sign that Mark cared maybe in the slightest. The rain was letting up now, falling in drizzles instead of fat raindrops. Ponyboy sighed and slowly extended his arm to shake Mark's hand. He knew deep down he didn't really want to shake his hand, but it was the trickery of Mark's know-all personality.

"But don't talk to me for a week—no, make that two weeks." Pony told him as he shook his hand, and then abruptly turned and started walking home. He didn't care if he caught pneumonia, because there was no way he was getting in a car with Mark anytime soon.

"Good deal," Mark called after him. Then, right as he was about to turn around, Mark stopped one last time. "And Curtis," he added, "don't tell anyone about this."

Ponyboy was still numb with shock, so all he did was nod and keep walking. All he could dream of was his room and his nice warm bed and maybe a clean pair of jeans… Darry getting mad at him seemed like the smallest worry in the world to him now. His brush with death was proving to him that he really had been a pain in Darry's ass all of these years, when Darry did nothing but give and give and all he did was take. He concluded that when he got home he would let Darry yell, apologize, and never leave his house ever again. He was thankful that it was Friday. He didn't really want to go to school and see Mark again.

His mind kept flashing back to that body laying dead in an alley a few blocks away from him, and each time he thought of it, he picked up the pace of his footsteps. It's my fault he's dead, he thought morbidly, if I had just kept my trap shut he wouldn't be dead right now. Why was he always getting people killed? He figured it was some sort of curse that followed him. First his parents, then Bob, then Johnny and Dallas, and now Billy. Even though he hadn't shot him, guilt still weighed on his shoulders like ten ton bricks. He felt responsible in some way for all of their deaths, and suddenly wondered how he himself hadn't been killed yet.

He suddenly recalled Bryon's words that night he was hanging out with him and Mark in the pool hall. You're going to get shot one day from your stupidity. He almost did get shot. He realized Bryon had had a point—Darry, too—always telling him to use his head. He'd been a complete idiot to comply with what Mark asked him to, because he just ended up in deeper water than he was in previously. It was stupid, and kind of sad, to say the least. He sure wanted to make something of himself, but that wasn't close to being possible if he never spoke for himself.

It wasn't as late as he'd been getting home the past few days, and for that he was awfully grateful. He wasn't scared about facing the wrath of Darry anymore, because now he had far bigger problems to worry about than getting yelled at by his older brother. Everything else seemed trivial at this point. Besides, he was beginning to realize that Darry yelled at him because he worried about him.

He undid his house gate and walked up the front steps, but this time he didn't poke his head through the curtains like he normally would've if it were any other day. He just opened the door and stepped inside. It wasn't confidence that had compelled him to waltz right in, it was plain tiredness. He was so tired that he could've fallen asleep walking. He hadn't slept so well the night before, in Terry's car, and it was starting to catch up with him. All he wanted was his bed and to forget this day ever happened.

Sodapop was staring at the television, watching some old TV show, but his gaze quickly snapped from the screen to him when he walked in. Darry was nowhere to be found, but the light in the bathroom was on.

"Hey," Soda said, not bothering to get up. "Where you been?"

The words 'where have you been' were starting to get old to him. He rubbed his eyes and blinked, his sudden lethargy startling him. Soda, who knew his brother like the back of his own hand, gave Pony an inquiring look and studied his face, noticing the dark lines underneath his eyes. "You didn't come home last night. How come?" he asked. He didn't sound mad—he didn't sound much of anything, to be frank. His voice was emotionless to a degree, but there was a faint trace of worry behind the words that were so easily covered up with his indifference.

"I'm aware I didn't come home, thanks," Pony snapped at him, which caused Soda to look up sharply. Something flickered behind those empty brown eyes of his, something like amusement. He stretched and got up to go get water from the kitchen sink, and then suddenly and very abruptly launched into a full-blown monologue, which was the most words he'd spoken in about two months.

"Darry ain't mad at you, you know. He's just tired—and he's got every right to be," Soda told him as he got a glass cup from one of the higher cabinets. "You're just about a legal adult, about to graduate. I think that you've given the guy enough gray hairs, don't you? I think you're a little too old to be put on a leash anymore, sure, but you've gotta respect him. He sets a curfew 'cause he cares about you." He was talking as if he were speaking to himself, but Pony knew those words were directed towards him. "He still works himself to death all the time. Since I'm outta work and your job down at the washateria doesn't make much of a few pennies, he's the main source of income. He's just really tired. That's why he gets mad at you. But I suppose you knew that, right?" Soda didn't even look him in the eye until the end of his monologue, where he cracked a rare grin. "I think you should talk to him."

Pony was faintly surprised and happy that Sodapop had finally spoken more than five words at a time. He could settle having a chat with Darry. He really needed to smooth things over. The candle wick that kept all hell from breaking loose between them was just about burnt to a stub, so he had to do something about it. He nodded, taking off his coat, and then paused, suddenly remembering a talk he'd had with an old friend of his earlier that day.

"Soda?" he asked, hanging up his fleece jacket on the coat hanger. Soda was putting ice in his cup, but he turned around at the sound of his name.

"Yeah?"

Pony pulled off his shoes and his hands trembles as he set them down neatly on the doormat. He was still shaken up. "Tim Shepard—he wanted to talk with you sometime. I don't know when, but I think you should talk to him. He's an old buddy of ours, right? He was real good buddies with Dal."

Sodapop seemed to wonder about that for a moment, sipping his water with a faraway look in his eyes. "Sure, I guess. Tell him to come by or something."

Pony grinned. "I will."

Soda was once again lost in thought, but Pony was happy that he'd caught his attention for a little while. It seemed that the more time that went on, the floatier Soda became. He sure wasn't that grinning, happy-go-lucky brother that he'd been in 1965, but Ponyboy had a good feeling that he could get over whatever mental roadblock he was going through. Tim would help, for sure.

He continued down the hall and noticed that in the time he and Soda were speaking, Darry had retreated into his own room from the bathroom, the door closed. He paused in front of Darry's door and stared at the rusty, silver doorknob, wondering whether he should open it. He really did have to have a chat with Darry. It was coming sooner or later, and as much as he ached to come clean about the events of the past couple of days, he couldn't. Too much was at stake—Mark, his own chances at a scholarship, and the fact that he'd witnessed a murder. While it was self-defense, it was still a covered-up murder nonetheless. There were things he couldn't tell Darry, but he could if he made it vague. He wanted so badly to get all of this weight off of his chest. About missing school, Billy, the hippie house, the drugs, even wiring the car. The events of the past few days were just piling up on him like sediments at the end of a river delta.

While he couldn't come completely clean, he could patch things up around this rough spot that he and his brother were going through. He took a long, rattling sigh, still shaken up from the previous events of the day, and then lifted his hand to knock on Darry's door.

A/N: Forgot to update it here, apologies.

Song used: Stranger in a Strange Land by The Byrds.