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It had been three days since we’d come to the church. Four since Johnny killed Bob. Five since that day so long ago at the DX.
We’d occupied ourselves with cards and reading and ham sandwiches, but it was tiring. It was tiring being a runaway, being so far away from good food and a cosy bed and the rest of the gang.
Johnny and I spend the nights curled together for warmth, huddled in a corner in the rooms with all the pews, the warmest room we could find in the drafty old building. Johnny used his jacket to cover us, and I used the flannel Dally had given me, and we slept restlessly night after night.
He would wake earlier than me, making us both sandwiches and setting mine out for me, dealing us out a game of poker, and then he’d come over and shake me awake, gently. We’d eat and bet with cigarettes instead of cash. He’d usually win, but it meant nothing because he’d share them anyway. That was the way he was.
My lungs felt heavy. It was probably all the smoking I’d done over the last few days, but there really wasn’t much else to do, just read and smoke. I coughed more than I ever did today, and I could see Johnny looking at me all concerned. He doesn’t smoke nearly as much as I do, spending most of his time fiddling with the cards or a cancer stick or reading out loud. I had stopped reading as much, cause I’d be interrupted with a coughing fit.
I think Johnny hid the pack of cigarettes tonight. I heard him get up after he thought I was asleep and pad into the other room. He’s scared of me getting too sick. I don’t want them anyway, if I ever get home Darry will be on me if I get too sick. Besides, my mouth and my stomach and my lungs feel sticky and dry and I’ve about had enough of cigarettes for a while.
We cried the first night, first separately and then together. Johnny cried for Dally and home and surprisingly, his parents. I cried for Darry and Soda and being in the church. We both cried for Bob Sheldon, no matter how much we hated him.
That was the last time we cried, that night.