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The house was quiet when Ponyboy walked in.
He kicked off his shoes, remembered not to let the door slam, and hung up his jacket. The lights were on in the kitchen, so someone must have been home; otherwise, Darry would kill whoever left the lights on after leaving the house. Everyone knew that. He’d always say, “You wanna pay the damn electric bill?”
“I’m home,” Pony announced, but he was just met with more silence, like he hadn’t been heard at all. His brothers, or even Steve or Two, if they were over, at least would usually call back a “hey” or something.
He rounded the corner, peering into the kitchen, his stomach dropping when he saw the sight.
Darry was at the counter, hunched over, one hand braced flat against it. The other was wrapped in a dish towel, already soaked dark red. The cutting board in front of him was a mess—half-chopped onions scattered everywhere, bloodstained, knife lying crooked like it had just slipped out of his grip. His shoulders were hunched in, and he was trembling.
Sodapop was sitting at the table, elbows on his knees, hands twisted in his hair. His eyes were red and swollen, his face blotchy like he’d been crying hard for a long time. He was staring at the floor, rocking just a little, like he hadn’t noticed Pony at all.
“What happened?” Pony asked, horrified.
Darry looked up. For a second, nothing registered on his face. Only blank, stunned disbelief, like his brain had shorted out. His eyes slid over Pony and then snapped back, wide and glassy, no understanding gleaming in his eyes.
Soda’s head jerked up at the same time. The color drained from his face. His lips worked, but no sound came out.
They both stared, neither of them moving. Pony had never seen two people more shocked than Darry and Soda were at that moment. And it didn’t make any sense.
Pony’s heart started to pound hard. “Hey,” he said, his mouth going dry. “What’s going on?”
Darry staggered forward, reaching out his uninjured hand. It was shaking. “Pony?” he said, barely louder than a breath, his voice breaking.
Soda lurched to his feet so fast his chair screeched across the floor. He crossed the room in two steps and grabbed Pony into a hug so fierce that they almost toppled over. “Oh, God,” Soda said, his voice cracking. “Oh, God, oh, God, thank God, Ponyboy.”
Pony stiffened. Soda’s hand came to rest on the back of Pony’s head, clutching him close. He was shaking so hard—violent, full-bodied shakes.
Then Darry rushed forward. He grabbed Pony’s arm, then his shoulder, then his hair, his hands rough and desperate, like he had to touch everything at once to be certain of whatever he was thinking. His grip hurt. Pony didn’t say anything.
Something very bad had happened. And Pony’s walking in had somehow changed everything.
“You’re here,” Darry said, his voice ragged. “You’re—you’re here. You’re okay?”
“We just went out for Pepsis,” Pony said, panic settling in. “Darry, you’re bleedin’. What’s going on?”
Darry laughed. It came out wrong—sharp and broken, like it tore on the way out. He pulled Pony in, too, crushing him between him and Soda, his forehead dropping hard against Pony’s hair.
“We thought you were dead,” Darry said.
The words didn’t register. “What?” Pony whispered.
Soda clung to him tighter, his fingers digging into Pony’s back. “The Dingo,” he choked out. “There was an explosion. They said on the radio—they said it was bombed.”
The room tilted. Pony’s knees went weak. “But—I wasn’t—I didn’t—”
“You told us you were goin’ there,” Darry said hoarsely. “You weren’t there?”
“We didn’t go,” Pony rushed out. “There was a Soc car on the way—we went somewhere else, I swear—I didn’t know—I’m sorry.”
Darry sagged.
“Sorry?” The word was nearly a laugh out of Soda. “Honey, you’re here, you could never apologize for anythin’ again, and it wouldn’t matter to me because you're here.”
Darry pulled back, keeping his hand on Pony’s head, looking at him like he’d just been given back the world. Soda wouldn’t lift his head.
After a moment, after the shaking slowed, after Pony stopped feeling like he might pass out, he noticed Darry’s hands again. The blood. The way he had a towel clutched around it.
“What happened to you?” Pony asked.
“I—I was makin’ supper,” Darry said. “And the radio was on—it—it was a local news broadcast. They—” He paused and swallowed, like he was about to be physically sick for a moment. “Glory, Pony, someone bombed the Dingo. People—People died. They confirmed names with injuries early on but not—not the casualties. And you didn’t come home. We thought—Oh, Lord… Oh, Pone.” Darry gathered him up into his arms again, breathing deeply.
“The knife slipped,” Soda said tearily. “When we heard that. We were so sure…” He dissolved into bitter sobs. “Oh, my word, you were almost dead. Thank God that car was there to make you turn around.”
Pony was shaking. Because it really had been that close. A brush with death, and he hadn’t even known it. “N— No one we knew was there?” he stammered in a panic.
Soda shook his head. “Well, maybe someone, but Steve and Two-Bit had shifts at work today. They wouldn’t have been there. And if anyone else… well. Someone would call us soon enough. But all I care about is that all five of us are accounted for now. That’s what matters to me.” He took a deep breath, looking at Darry’s hand. “Let’s get that fixed up.”
Sodapop sat Darry down and carefully unwrapped his hand, inspecting it. “Okay. Okay, good. Not deep enough for the hospital. I think we can butterfly this up and be good to go. Pony—” Soda looked up at him, stilling, his face softening, like he still couldn’t believe their luck. “Call in a pizza. We ain’t makin’ dinner after that biohazard over there.” He jerked his head toward the mess of onions that weren’t originally the red variety.
Pony called for a pizza delivery while Sodapop patched up Darry’s hand. Pony set to work cleaning up the kitchen, realizing his hands were still shaking. He flipped on the radio, sound low.
“—officials have now confirmed seven casualties and 22 injuries at the bombing of the Dingo earlier this afternoon. No additional people included since the broadcast earlier. For those concerned, the names of the casualties will be later confirmed, and we repeat those confirmed injured—”
Ponyboy listened closely to the names listed, but he didn’t recognize any. He quickly prayed that he wouldn’t recognize any of the casualties that would almost certainly be published in the morning paper.
He flipped the radio off, understanding how close he was to that radio broadcast being about him.
He retrieved the pizza when it came to the door, but when he set it out on the coffee table in the living room, no one made a move to touch it for a while.
Silently, Soda pulled Pony down to the couch with him and Darry, and they held onto him on either side. No words were spoken. It was only even breathing, faces still splotchy.
Ponyboy couldn’t imagine being in their shoes. Hearing on the radio that his brother had been blasted to bits, just like that. Realizing he was suddenly one of two and not three. Realizing that half of his life had just been pulled out from right under his feet. Again.
He wrapped his arms around them. “It’s okay,” he said softly. “I’m still here.”
They both nodded and held on.