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The first thing he thinks, as the beer bottle goes crashing against the side of his face, is that he really oughta stop hanging out with Curly Shepard.
Curly only invites him out when he’s bored and no one else wants to join. Pony knows he’s not exactly the most fun company; he prefers quieter nights. Curly’s idea of fun often consisted of booze, girls, and trying to act exactly like his big brother. Pony knows that a night with Curly only ever really brings him trouble-- fights, loud music, joyrides, Curly’s crazy-ass sister, cleaning up Curly when he drinks too much and gets sick. He doesn’t know why he still tags along. Maybe he just wants to feel like a normal guy his age.
Tonight was tamer than most. They walked to the Dingo, got the scoop in town, snuck into the rodeos down the street. Pony more or less begged Curly to start hitting the road around 11:35-- he was doing real well on making it back for his curfew, and he intended to keep it that way. He couldn’t help but feel pretty relieved as they approached his neighbor-- no trouble.
Five minutes later, trouble came in the form of some out-of-towners-- that is to say, Pony’s never seen them before, and he’s seen just about every breathing being in Tulsa. Curly thought they dressed funny, and even though Pony couldn’t have cared less about it, Curly can never help himself. He started in on them, damn near laughing his head off at his own wit. Ponyboy kept his mouth shut good, but it didn’t seem to matter; he was standing next to Curly. They were much tougher than they looked, and before he knew it, he was throwing punches and dodging swings. Ponyboy didn’t like fights. He tried to avoid them when he could. But glory, if he’s gonna fight, he’s gonna win.
He’s a better skin fighter than Curly-- Curly likes to fight with anything he can get his hands on. Tim had revoked Curly’s switchblade privileges for the day, considering his idea of a good time last night was scaring some little kids outside the bowling alley. Tim probably didn’t care that part-- it was the witnesses that Tim cared about. Pony was glad, in a way, that they could just have an old-fashioned brawl and no one would get too injured. Darry would probably fuss over the bruise he could feel forming on his jaw, but he’s come to learn there are far worse things than having your big brother fuss over you.
Curly got his guy pretty good, all things considered, and he tried to pull the guy off of Pony and make him leave. He managed to push his guy away into the arms of his friend, but the neck of the beer bottle seemed to appear out of thin air, and before he could duck, Curly’s guy clocked him hard. He could hear them running off as his hearing phased into ringing.
The first thing he feels, besides the throbbing pain on the side of his head, are his shoulders being shaken so hard he feels like his head is gonna snap off his neck.
“Pony, you with me?”
“Christ, Curly, back off,” he mumbles, trying to get his eyes back open, with a surprising amount of willpower.
He doesn’t. Curly doesn’t really do “backing off.” Not really his speed.
“He didn’t get you too bad, did he?”
Curly’s voice is ringing against his ears too, and there is some layer of concern in his voice Ponyboy’s never heard come out of his mouth.
“I’ve gotten worse,” Pony murmurs back. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
He finally manages to pry his eyes open, and he realizes the reason it’s so hard is that there is a solid stream of blood covering over his left eye. Curly’s face comes into his view, kneeling in front of him with genuine shock on his face that Pony would even dare blame him for this. “Me? I ain’t the one smashing bottles over your head!”
“Yeah, well, I probably could have avoided it if you could keep your trap shut!” He goes to touch the side of his head, and when he is greeted with an entirely red-stained hand, he groans. “Darry’s gonna damn near lose his head. I come home with so much as a splinter and he wants to keep me in bed for a week. This isn’t gonna go over well.”
“Tim would probably just tell me I’m an idiot and to go take a shower,” Curly tells him, as if it’s the better option. “He’s real sweet like that.”
Pony grimaces as the throbbing subsides, but the blood does not. “Gimme your sweatshirt.”
“Why? It’s mine. Use your own damn sweatshirt.”
“‘Cause it’s your fault I’m bleeding like a stuck pig, and Darry just bought me this one, and I don’t intend on staining it. Unless you want to be the one to tell my brother why the hell I’m covered in blood?”
Curly stares at him blankly for several seconds before grunting and yanking off his blue pullover and shoving it into his hands. Curly would never admit it, but he was plain scared of Darry. Everyone in their neighborhood was, even if underneath all the muscles and hard-stares, he was kinda a big softy. Still, Pony liked to use it to his advantage.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Curly says to him, grabbing him by the elbow and standing him up. The entire motion makes him incredibly dizzy, but then pain doesn’t feel as sharp as he thinks it should. It’s almost like it was outside his body, a ghost feeling his pain for him. That’s probably a good thing, right?
“Like what?” Pony replies, catching his breath.
Curly looks even more annoyed at that response, and pushes him forward a bit with his version of gentleness. “C’mon, I’ll walk you home. Let’s hope your brother’s are asleep.”
He was always going on about Pony and his brothers. Ponyboy often wonders if he’s jealous. He’s not really used to someone being jealous over him. Curly was no Johnny, that’s for sure. But he was a friend, even if he didn’t really care for his lifestyle, and Pony couldn’t help but feel a little bad for him. All he really ever wanted was for Tim to pay attention to him, even if he’d pummel Pony for suggesting it. Greasers really weren’t that hard to read, even if they could play it cool. At least, they weren’t to Ponyboy. Still, being Curly’s friend still got him a gash on the side of his head, so at the moment, it really is a waning feeling.
Things seem to move in slow motion, but for some reason, he isn’t that worried about it. There is a detached floating feeling about everything, and he wonders briefly what happened to all that adrenaline he felt just a few minutes ago while fighting. Maybe it was still somewhere mixed up in him.
Before he knows it, they’re walking through the park. It’s empty this time of night, and he ignores the squeeze in his chest that he always has when he realizes Johnny would never be around again.
It was an odd feeling, because he didn’t really get it for anybody else. Not for Dallas-- he didn’t know what to make of Dally half the time. Sadness, yes. Something like resolve and relief on occasion. Regret most of the time. They never really discussed Dally-- no one really knew what to say. As for his parents, he couldn’t talk about them. He didn’t want to even think about them, but he did. They were reserved for his nightmares and his daydreams, and he kept them to himself, close to heart, for no one else. He wouldn’t be able to talk about them for a long time, and he knew it. His brothers had no interest talking about them either, even if he did know they’d let him if he asked. But, he didn’t. He just wanted to forget.
Johnny was different. He thought about Johnny every damn day of his life-- wondering where he was, if anywhere. Turning to tell him something or see his reaction to something, and realize he’s just not there. He’s not sure why he’s not used to it yet-- it’s been months, and he accepted a while ago that Johnny was gone, and there was nothing he could do about it. It didn’t stop him from wishing there was.
He supposes that has something to do with hanging out with Curly, even if they were two different kinds of people-- he wasn't like Johnny, so he didn't have to think about Johnny. It wasn't really fair to Curly, but Pony could probably guess that it wasn't that important to Curly as to why Pony hung around him. He just liked his company anyway.
“Trouble always seems to find you, Ponyboy Curtis,” Curly’s saying, kicking a rock down the road, kinda like he could read his mind.
“Don’t I know it,” Pony murmurs, trying to shake away the ringing in his ears.
“And yet, you’re the only guy I know who doesn’t go looking for it,” Curly replies, almost like he’s talking to himself.
It takes a second for him to register what he’s saying, but when it hits him, he shakes his head. “I’m just very good at being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“I’ve noticed,” he responds, as if he wasn’t trouble in and of himself. “If what happened to you happened to me, I’d never stop talking about it. Everyone I’d run into-- they’d get the whole story. But you never talk about it.”
His stomach lurches at the thought of Johnny. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
Curly sighs, ignoring Pony. “You know, half the guys at school think you’re crazy tuff because of it. Cool, ain’t scared of nothing. They’re always asking me about you, what you’re like. I don’t know how to break it to them that you’re not. That, if anything, it made you different.”
Maybe it’s the head wound, but Pony can’t help but feel a little confused at the odd sincerity in Curly’s voice. It really wasn’t like him. Curly only ever really liked to talk about himself.
“I don’t think I’m that different,” Pony argues, but there is no real fight in his words, because he knows it’s kind of a lie.
“Well, you’re not crazy tough. You’re not mean. Any other guy in this neighborhood? They would have turned ice-cold. Not you. But you’re definitely different.”
“Is that a bad thing?” Ponyboy asks, just as sincere. “What are you trying to say?”
“I don’t think it’s a bad thing. But Tulsa might. Tulsa doesn’t like change.” Curly shrugs and lights a cigarette. He offers one to Pony, but he declines it. The smoke was kinda making him queasy.
He never really considered Curly as any sort of wise-guy, but there are things you learn on the streets that no book could ever teach you. Pony supposes if Curly knew anything, he knew how to play the Tulsa-game. And so far, Curly was winning. Pony hated to think of the day when he lost.
“Why do you invite me out if you think I’m so different?”
“Because why would I care about all that?” Curly turns to look at him, genuine confusion on his face. “Because we’re friends?”
“Are we?” Pony asks, just as confused.
Curly shakes his head. “What a goddamn stupid question. For someone so smart, you can be dumb as rocks.”
“Maybe it’s the concussion you gave me,” Pony says in a joking manner, though he’s starting to think it might not really be a joke.
“Christ, you’re never gonna let this go, are you? That’s one thing about you Curtis’-- you’re as stubborn as mules.”
The whole interaction is so oddly sincere, that it shuts Ponyboy up as they continue to walk past the fountain. He shudders at it. There were times, late at night after his brothers went to bed, when he’d lie awake in bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking about all the things he should have done, all the things he wished he could fix. It didn't matter how many times he told himself to let it go, to accept that you can't change the past, that you can never be the person you were before. He'd worry himself to sleep, and wonder if Soda could hear all the noise in his head as loud as he could.
He knows it's pointless though, he shouldn't try to fix what was broken anyway. He knows Johnny's dead. It wasn't going to fix anything. But when he wakes up, sweating and shaking from the dreams, he wishes more than anything that he didn't feel so helpless.
He wishes more than anything he didn’t feel so different.
He blinks away the stars dancing across his vision. That's really weird, because he was doing pretty okay so far. He is made aware that they’re a few houses away from his, and continues to stumble forward before Curly catches him by the arm.
“Hey!” Curly gripes, yanking him up. “I said gimme my sweatshirt back.”
“What?” Pony asks, confused as all hell. It’s like Curly’s speaking a different language.
“Curtis, have you heard a damn word I've been saying?” Curly's voice sounds weirdly shrill and full of dread.
It takes Pony a few moments to realize he actually asked him a question, and that the answer was, “No.”
“Jesus, is your brain leaking out the side of your head? Let me look at it.” Curly grabs him by the shoulders and roughly turns his head to take a look at the wound. His lips make a thin line and he shakes his head. “Damn. He got you real good.”
“It don’t hurt,” Pony tells him.
“Yeah, that’s probably not a good thing, you idiot.”
“Hey! I wasn’t the one who picked a fight,” he points out, trying to shove him back a bit, but miscalculating the distance and nearly falling forward instead.
The other boy sighs heavily, looking away from him. “Well, at least you're still conscious,” is all he offers.
“You worried about me?” Ponyboy asks, trying for a smirk, but he must just look crazy because Curly shakes his head again with a sigh.
“You wish. I’m more worried your big brother will tear into me for bringing you home on the verge of death,” Curly groans.
“I knew it,” Pony says, handing Curly his blood stained sweatshirt, much to his chagrin.
“Knew what?” Curly bites back.
“That you were scared of my brother,” Pony teases, ignoring how he was getting blood all over his own sweatshirt anyway. The damn thing on the side of his head wouldn’t stop bleeding.
“Don’t piss me off.” Curly rolls his eyes. “I ain’t scared of your brother, I’m scared of his muscles.”
They finally make it to Pony’s front yard, and Curly quite literally stops short, like there was a forcefield around the house he couldn’t pass through.
“I’m heading out,” he tells Pony, shoving his hands in his pocket. “Don’t pass out before you get inside.”
Pony smirks. He really was spooked by Darry. “That’s not very gentlemanly of you.”
“Yeah, well, my mother didn’t raise gentlemen,” Curly gripes. He stares at Pony a bit before cracking a grin. “I’ll see you tomorrow, as long as your head is still on your shoulders.”
“It would be no thanks to you,” Pony mumbles, then turns around before Curly could get the last word.
It’s so easy to talk to Curly sometimes, and he winces as he goes to open the door because Johnny was even easier to talk to. He can remember all those days in the church, how easy it was to pass the time even if he wished he had been anywhere else. Golden mornings and Gone With the Wind and baloney sandwiches.
And then his stomach flips, the memories flashing before his eyes. He feels sick, almost to the point of collapsing as tears spring to his eyes and his body trembles. He hates crying. And yet, he seems to do a lot of it lately. He pulls himself back together. Some kind of dread was filling up in him, and he could only take so many blows in one night.
He follows Curly's advice as best he can and tries not to pass out before stepping inside. The lamp is on, and there sits Darry in their father's armchair, watching the TV. Soda must be asleep. He's glad, in a way, because in his state, he can only take on one brother's worry at a time.
Darry looks up from the TV casually, and when they lock eyes, Darry's go so wide, they're basically white.
“Jesus Christ, Ponyboy, what the hell happened?” He jumps to his feet instantly and walks right up to him, grabbing his shoulders gently. “Are you alright? What happened? Did you--”
“I'm fine,” Pony assures him, because he is. Probably. “I'm fine, Dar. It looks worse than it is. It don't hurt.”
“Start talking, kid. I mean it,” Darry shouts over his shoulder as he walks to the bathroom to find the first aid kit.
“Curly was being a moron, that's what happened,” Pony replies, honest. He likes when he and Darry get to be honest with each other.
Darry returns with a rag and bandages in hand, and pulls Pony into the light to get a good look. He cups Pony's chin and tilts his head down and to the side, gently wiping away the blood with the rag. Pony thinks he should wince, but to be honest, he could hardly feel the entire left side of his head. Darry sighs in frustration, but Pony can hear the worry in it, too. “Christ Almighty, Pony, there's glass in your hair. Did someone smash a bottle over your head?”
“Yeah,” he replies, attempting to explain the situation. Darry stares at him like he's waiting for more, and then he realizes he hadn't said anything. Why was his brain working so slow? “Curly started picking on some guys, I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. This was the parting gift they gave me before they took off.”
“Shit, Pony. Jesus, I'm sorry,” Darry says, almost absentmindedly. Darry hardly ever apologizes like that. Then his eyes go a bit dark. “I don't love the idea of you hanging with Curly Shepard if it's gonna get you hurt like this.”
Oddly enough, Pony feels a bit of resistance to this. “He ain't that bad. He's not as tough as he thinks he is.”
“Yeah. That's what I'm afraid is gonna get him killed. And by proxy, you,” Darry argues, shaking his head, before he drops his hands from his chin. Darry doesn't say anything else for a while, just gets to work picking out the glass and cleaning off the blood. There sure was a lot of it.
Finally, he asks, “Why do you keep hanging around him anyway? He ain't exactly... your speed.” Darry fumbles for the end of his sentence, like he doesn't know how else to describe it without it sounding like an insult.
“I dunno, I guess, I just like him,” Pony answers, though the lie tastes sour on his tongue.
Darry knows he's lying. Instead of letting Pony live it, he says, “The kid spends his day stealing lunch money from little kids and nearly crashing his brother's every other week. I'm not sure what there is to like.”
Darry didn’t used to talk to him like this. He never really let Pony explain himself, or make him elaborate. He bought his lies at face-value and never bothered to wonder if something else was going on. Lately, Pony can’t get away with anything. It’s like his soul has turned to glass, and every thought and feeling he had was on full display. Did he change, or did Darry? He can’t tell. He doesn’t want to know.
“Hey, you okay?” There he goes again, looking straight through him. Pony knows he isn’t asking about the physical pain. His voice is soft, and slow, and he sounds exactly like their father. “Talk to me, what’s wrong?”
Talk to me. A few months ago, Pony was positive Darry didn’t even know that phrase existed. A few months ago, this night would have ended with him getting grounded.
Why does he somewhat long for a time he wasn’t even happy? He can’t figure it.
He realizes he’s gone silent, half because he can’t answer his own questions, and half because he’s losing all trains of thought. His vision is swimming just a bit, but he grounds himself tightly to the floor. He's not sure why he's so hell-bent on not succumbing to the pain, but Darry must sense something is wrong, because his eyes scan all over Ponyboy's head with a bit of newfound fervency.
Pony can see Darry's mouth moving, speaking, but he can't really hear anything besides the ringing in his head, like a tuning fork. He wonders if it'll split his head in two, even though, really, the pain wasn't that strong. But before he has a chance to wonder further, the buzzing abruptly cuts off, leaving him feeling oddly disconnected from himself.
“Ponyboy? Did you hear what I said?”
Pony blinks slowly in surprise. His mouth isn't quite cooperating with him, either. When he attempts to open his mouth, nothing comes out. Or maybe it’s just the nausea that keeps threatening him. Where the hell did that come from? He takes a deep breath and lets it out again slowly to try and regain control of his lungs and the rest of his body. He closes his eyes and waits a minute for whatever it is to pass before opening them again.
“Pony?” Darry asks softly, concern etched onto his face. “Can you hear me?”
“Yeah,” he squeaks.
“What did I just say?”
Pony narrows his eyes. “Not a clue.”
Darry grits his teeth. “Goddamnit. Soda!”
Pony winces when he yells, squinting up his eyes and wishing they could sink into his skull. It's getting real hard to keep seeing straight. The movement has him swaying on his feet, and he feels his brother grab him by the shoulders.
“You gotta sit down, kiddo,” Darry tells him, guiding him to the couch. “You're not looking good. Sodapop!”
“Quit yelling,” Pony murmurs, leaning his head back.
“Sorry,” Darry replies, and Pony can hear the softness creeping back into his voice.
He can hear his other brother stumble into the living room, and turns his head to look at his half-awake face come into frame, rubbing his hands over his eyes. He fully wakes up immediately upon seeing Pony, and he wonders if maybe it is as bad as it looks. “Holy shit, what the hell happened?”
Soda rushes over to the couch, sitting down next to him and looking over his head with frantic concern. His brown eyes scan all over his body, like he's trying to put the story together using his context-clues. When that yields no results, Darry, who had disappeared into the kitchen, chimes in with, “Curly got a bottle smashed over his head. I think he's got a concussion.”
“Curly did this?”
“No,” Pony says. “The guy he picked a fight with.”
“Damn. That's a pretty deep gash,” Soda remarks, grimacing. “Where'd Curly go? Is he alright?”
Pony nods. “Yeah. He was just scared of Darry.”
“He ought to be,” Darry says, his voice deep and his eyes low.
Even with Soda gently rubbing his shoulder, he can't shake any of the dizziness that’s washing over him in waves. The floor feels like it’s collapsing and breaking apart, and that the couch is about to be swallowed into the Earth’s core. His stomach drops, a knot twisting itself painfully, and he knows the world is tilting sideways. Something like a magnet pulls him to his feet, despite both his head feeling like it's made of rocks and Soda trying to keep him down.
Soda stands up, too, and reaches for his arms. “Woah, Pone, sit down.”
Darry grabs him around the middle. “You're gonna pass out.”
“Not gonna,” Pony whines. “Had to make sure the floor wasn’t gone.” His words are slurred and unclear now. Pony leans heavily against Darry, who grips tight to hold him steady, keeping him upright and balanced.
“I think we gotta go get some stitches in that thick skull of yours,” Darry tells him, still holding him tight. “It looks really bad.”
“Let me throw some clothes on,” Soda says, letting go of Pony's arm and heading off towards the bedroom.
“I don't want to go to the hospital,” he protests weakly, shaking his head. He tries to push past Darry, but the older boy just holds tighter. “I really hate the hospital.”
“Yeah, I know, kiddo,” Darry replies, sincere and soft. “But we don't have much choice here.”
Pony just shakes his head again. He doesn't really feel like arguing right now. He's already tired enough. His head feels fuzzy, and he can't seem to get a hold of what exactly is going on in his body. Everything feels kind of heavy, sort of dulled by the pain.
“Come on, let's get in the car,” Darry says, pulling away slightly. “Can you walk?”
“Yes,” says Pony.
“Okay, can you start walking?”
“No.”
Darry sighs, almost like he wants to laugh. “Right. Okay. Let me put my shoes on, and then I'll--”
His stomach lurches, then drops. “Darry?”
“Yeah?”
“I think I'm gonna--”
Before he can finish the sentence, his legs give way underneath him and he collapses to the ground. He hears his own body thud ungracefully to the ground, followed closely by Darry swearing under his breath, then calling for Soda. His heart starts pounding against his chest, beating furiously. The last thing he sees is Darry's eyes staring worriedly down at him, wide open, filled with fear, trying to keep him up right, before everything fades completely.
“Don’t touch it.” A hand gentle grabs his and pushes back in his lap. “Lay back.”
“Soda?” he murmurs, his tongue numb in his mouth. He hears the low hum of the engine, and it slowly dawns on him that they’re in the car. His head itches like crazy, but Soda’s practically holding him down like he’s about to blast off into space, so he can’t scratch it.
“Yeah, buddy. You feeling okay?”
The answer is no. He feels like his insides have turned to soup and his head has been put on upside down. He can’t remember a damn thing, but there’s something strange hanging in the air that makes him think he’s gotten himself banged up again.
Soda shakes him a little. “Pony? Can you hear me?”
“Yeah,” he says, trying to open his eyes and finding it harder than anything to do it. “Something happened.”
Darry, who must be driving, huffs a dry laugh. “Yeah, something happened. You just got four stitches in your head, that’s what happened.”
“We were at the hospital?”
“Yeah, kid, we were. Now, lay back,” Soda commands. He didn’t even notice he was trying to sit up. He leans into his brother's side, feeling dizzy and sick to his stomach. Soda chuckles a little bit, then says, “Maybe we should get you a helmet, Pony. Two concussions in one year can’t be good for you.”
“I don’t remember being at the hospital,” he admits, managing to crack his eyes to see Soda gently stroking his hair.
“You were barely conscious, so I don’t doubt it. Go back to sleep, baby,” Soda says softly.
“Not a baby,” he replies, though he feels an awful lot like one at the moment.
Soda chuckles. “Whatever you say, tough guy. Go on, go to sleep.”
“Soda?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you think I changed?”
“Huh?”
“Like, do you think everything that happened this year… made me different?” It's the only thing beyond this car ride he can remember about the day. And some weird feeling he should call up Curly Shepard tomorrow.
Soda looks at him for a long time. Even in his state, Ponyboy can see the wheels turning in his head, trying to find the right thing to say, trying not to look upset.
Because the thing is, Ponyboy has changed. Even if he didn’t want to admit it— to himself or anyone— he’d changed. “Gotten older” wasn't the right phrase. He’d changed. He’d always been quiet, but now, he felt like he didn’t know how to speak if Johnny wasn’t listening. He’d always been shy, but now he felt like anyone who looked at him was out to get him. Everything felt different— he just didn’t realize he was the reason why.
Soda leans his cheek on the side of his head, and sighs. “Yeah. But it’s alright. I knew it would.”
Ponyboy feels like crying. That’s not the answer he wanted, even if it was the truth. “How?”
“'Cause I know you,” Soda says.
“I’m sorry.”
Soda shakes his head. “Lord, don’t be sorry. You’re still our little brother. That doesn’t change.”
Pony closes his eyes, resting his head on crook Sodapop's neck. Maybe the rest of today will come back to him eventually, when he wakes up more lucid. Darry's hand reaches over and squeezes his shoulder. It's strong and solid and gives him something to hold onto. In his half-conscious state, he feels the truck roll to a stop in front of his house.
Tomorrow, Curly will come by and avoid Darry’s narrow eyes and offer him cigarettes and lifted candy bars instead of apologies. Tomorrow, he’ll make fun of the zig-zag stitches on Pony’s hairline and call him Frankenstein for the next month.
Tomorrow, Soda will take the day off and make him red pancakes and not exactly explain how they got to be so red. Tomorrow, he’ll pretend he can’t hear Ponyboy calling for Johnny in his dreams and he won’t ask him if he wants to talk about it, because he knows Pony won’t.
Tomorrow, Darry will ruffle his hair and tell him it’s a damn shame he can’t pick up a book for the next week, but it’s doctor's orders. Tomorrow, he’ll splurge on pizza for dinner to make up for it.
And tomorrow, Darry will ask him why the hell he still hangs around a guy like Curly, and Ponyboy will have to admit that it’s because he’s the only guy in the neighborhood who doesn’t treat him different, even if he is different.
But for tonight, he is more than grateful when he feels Darry lift him into his arms out of the backseat and start walking towards the house. He couldn’t have gotten up to save his life.
“Come on, little brother,” Darry says. “We’re home.”
Hmm. Maybe there are some things that never change.