Chapter Text
His cheek is still stinging when he runs out of the house, feet hardly touching the ground and tears dripping down his face.
He’s in front of the lot before he’s even decided that’s where he’s going.
He’d heard Darry and Soda shouting after him. Yelling for him to come back, but he wasn’t letting Soda explain this one away as Dar being stressed.
So, he’s back at the lot; where this had all started. Because he’d been stupid enough to fall asleep.
“We’re running away.” The words are ripping themselves from his throat before he’s even all the way next to Johnny.
He can’t hardly breathe, every breath seeming like not enough before a sob is punching it back out of him. He’s reaching a hand out to Johnny, whose breath is startlingly even. It couldn’t have been more than 10 minutes since Pony was last here, but he’s already dropped off again.
It’s rare that Johnny ever sleeps like this, deeply. Not even when he’s on the Curtis or Mathews’ couch.
He’s curled up, embers glowing down to almost nothing at his feet.
And it’s so rare that Johnny sleeps good like this.
Pony sits back on his heels. Sure, his cheek is stinging, but he’d sure feel bad if he woke up Johnny on one of the very few nights he has a chance at getting some real sleep.
His chest seizes up at the thought of crawling back to Darry while his face is still red and Darry’s probably still spitting mad.
He falls back onto the dirt, pulling up his knees real close to his chest to try and force himself to take deeper breaths.
“I knew it.” He sniffles, voice hardly more than a breath. “I knew he hated me.”
There’s no reply besides the crickets. Johnny stays soundly sleeping.
”This is stupid.” He whispers. It’s not like he’s talking to anybody but himself out here.
It takes a couple more deep pulls of air for his chest to stop shuddering. He’s still shaking like a leaf, but that’s probably because he ran out of the house without any shoes on.
A weak gust of wind blows through the lot and he looks up.
No one else is around.
Just him, the crickets, and a sleeping Johnny.
A walk will probably clear up his mind (and probably freak Darry out a little more when Pony doesn’t immediately come home.)
He hates the petty little thrill that shoots up his spine at the thought of Darry messing up his hair and biting his nails waiting for Pony to come home.
Maybe if he waits long enough, Darry’ll even apologize.
Right before he stands up, the smooth rumble of a Socy car comes from the street.
He ducks his head down, a wave of fear rippling through him and making the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.
They shouldn’t be this far into greaser territory, brushing up on Shepard borders, this far into the night.
Not unless they’re looking for trouble.
Pony sighs quietly and falls back, sitting on the soft dirt that’s really more dust than anything, staring at the embers.
He casts a quick glance at Johnny, who hasn’t even shifted. A testament to how tired he must’ve been; Johnny isn’t the heaviest sleeper in the world, not since those Socs jumped him.
He’s always ready to run.
Pony sighs and lays back, tensing when he hears that same smooth engine roll by. They’re doing laps around the block.
His elbow brushes up against something hard and textured.
His neck hurts from how quick he whips his head around, an irrational fear rising that it was a hand.
Johnny’s switchblade sits, innocently, the handle glinting dully in the firelight.
His eyes are drawn to the belt loops of Johnny’s jeans, brows furrowing in confusion. Like any good greaser, he keeps his blade clipped to his pants.
Pony rolls over, laying on his elbow and picking up the blade, trying to figure out how to put it back without waking up Johnny.
That same smooth engine rumbles on by and Pony holds his breath until he’s sure it passed.
A stronger gust of cuttingly cold wind blows some surface dust around, goosebumps rising on Pony’s arms.
He tucks his arms around himself and desperately wishes he were home, in bed, with Soda’s arm laying too heavy across his back.
But the tenderness in his cheek wipes that thought from his head.
If he went back, Soda would want them to talk it out and Pony would end up crying again. He hates crying, especially in front of other people. Even Soda, sometimes, but mostly Darry.
But he’s cold. And he’s tired. And it’s nighttime. He’s fourteen, alone, and there’s a Soc circling his neighborhood.
The car should pass before a minute is up and then he can run like crazy back to his house and maybe even make it. (But is he willing to risk it?)
Darry would probably call him dumb, and Soda would look all concerned.
He sighs and leans back again, staring at the sky.
Maybe he should wake up Johnny after all. Even if only to ask if he’s sure he’d rather spend the night out here in the cold.
The car comes by again, faster, and the thought of going home suddenly feels like someone is dunking him into ice cold water, Johnny or no Johnny.
His eyes lock on the switchblade again.
He doesn’t want to leave Johnny with no protection, but he’s cold. And he so, so wants to be back at his own house with Soda holding him close. Maybe he’ll even be spared from the nightmares.
He reaches for the switchblade, pausing, the muscles in his hand locking up before he eventually snatches it. It sits heavy in the palm of his hand, accompanied by the knowledge that it’s not supposed to be in his hand. Because it’s not his.
Three weeks ago, three and a half months closer to when Johnny had gotten jumped and only two weeks after Johnny had vowed to kill the next Soc who tried to beat on him, Johnny had pressed the closed blade into Pony’s hand.
“You need it more than me, man.”
“No way, I ain’t takin’ your blade, Johnnycakes! I’m just walking home from school, you're staying out here for the night.”
“Don’t worry ‘bout it, Pone. Dal is pickin’ me up and bringin’ me by Two’s. I’ll be safe. Won’t even be sleeping out in the lot.”
Pony had known it was a lie, then. Dally was still in the cooler, and Two was gonna be out at a card game for most of the night. Johnny never liked sleeping on the Mathews’ couch if it was just gonna be him and Two-Bit's sister or mama there. Said it made him feel weird.
That night, Pony had snuck out of the house and went to the lot, laying Johnny’s knife right back down next to him. Johnny had woken up, but when he saw what Pony was doing, he just closed his eyes again.
They had never talked about it, but Johnny was always the first one to give Pony something to protect himself with in a fight (if Two-Bit wasn’t there, anyway).
He ignores the monster of guilt gnawing at his chest, tightening his hand around Johnny’s blade and standing, stepping over him carefully and grabbing a stick that was lying near the chain-link fence. He walks back and writes a small message in choppy handwriting in the dirt.
“I took your blade. Hope you don’t mind. I’ll come back in the AM. Tell you more. —Pony.”
He carefully drags the ripped-up tarp that stays crumpled in the corner of the lot for this exact purpose, and lays it over the message. He lodges it underneath a couple of heavier rocks, in the hopes that it would stay intact until morning.
Then, he stomps out the rest of the dying embers that are left of Johnny’s fire, as quietly as possible.
That Soc car goes by three more times in the time it takes, and Pony waits to hear—and see, this time (dang, does it look familiar)—it pass once more, before he breaks into a dead run. He runs a block before he catches sight of that old Crutchfield Park, and he slows. Any Socs around here at night wouldn’t be sober enough to have the sense to look beyond the road they’re driving on.
Besides, if he cuts through here, he’ll be home quicker. (And Glory, does he want to be home quicker.)
He sticks to the shadows of the elm trees, even with the borrowed blade a reassuring weight. The thought of being anywhere the light might hit him makes him feel suffocatingly terrified.
Something about the park is giving him a bad feeling. It’s a feeling he usually gets when he’s walking alone but seems amplified. Maybe it’s the way the trees shift in the wind, leaves rustling and whispering in a way that make him feel crazy as he leans in and tries to parse a meaning out of them.
Lord knows if one of those super tough guys like Dally saw him, they’d ask if he was crazy.
He pauses when he gets to the middle of the park, the pale moonlight highlighting enough of the space that everything looks badly lit and washed out. There’s an empty kiddie pool off to the side, some leaves already coating the bottom of it, and a fountain happily going right in the middle of it all.
If he looks close enough, he could swear some ice is creeping in on the edges of it.
Scratch the leaves idea. Maybe he feels so creeped out by the whole thing ‘cause he’s never seen this place so empty.
He’s only ever been here during the day with squealing kids running around and people lounging on benches. Never when it’s dead quiet and he can actually hear the nature of it all.
He steps into the moonlight, and in some ways, it feels like a death sentence. He walks slowly by the fountain, peeking into it to see if that really was ice that he’d been spotting.
Of course not. It was an absurd idea to begin with. It only feels like it’s freezing. It’s just the reflection of the moon on rippling water, making it look like intricate frozen patterns were forming from the walls inward.
His ears heat up even though no one else has any clue what he was checking for.
He tries to push past the embarrassment, instead admiring the pretty reflections of the light. He bites down the urge to whistle. The thought of making noise is enough to send a shiver up his spine.
If he weren’t already freezing, he might reach a finger out to touch the water, but he just tucks his hands under his arms, trying to warm up and looking forward to seeing Soda again.
He’s distantly aware of that Soc engine circling the block for what must be their 20th time as he looks around the park. There’s a jungle gym over by the tree line, and he’s pretty sure he can see a few more playground structures near the South entrance.
In this neighborhood, it’s probably vandalized to all hell, but the kids around here don’t mind much.
The pavement is washed blue-white and glowing in the moonlight, then, all at once, it’s being flooded with headlights from behind him and oh shit, the car isn’t circling anymore and they’re blaring the horn, and the Socs are right there.
He freezes, regretting it sorely when five guys come stumbling out of the car, all of them tanked up.
They’re descending on him like vampires before he even gets a chance to run.
“You—You’re outta your territory, Socs. Better beat it.” Pony says, cursing the cold for making his teeth chatter. Damn Socs probably think he’s scared. (He is scared. He’s damn terrified.)
He finds himself wishing he had stayed home with Darry and Soda, no matter how upset he’d been, as the Socs mock him.
“Are you s-s-s-scared, greaser?” One of them asks, before him and a buddy burst into hyena laughter.
The rest of them are smirking and Pony sends a silent thanks to Johnny.
“You better get on, or you’ll get cut.” He threatens, pushing the switchblade into clear view. It’s still closed, but it gets them to quiet down.
“You threatenin’ me, grease?” The ringleader (Cherry’s guy. Named Bob, Pony’s pretty sure.) asks lowly, getting up in Pony’s face. Rings that match the scars on Johnny’s face glitter on his hand.
The smell of English Leather and expensive liquor hits him so strongly a wave of nausea rushes through him.
“You got a lotta nerve.” He slurs, his eyes barely focused as he steps even closer, until Pony can count the freckles on his nose. “After chattin’ up our girls. Next time you wanna pick up a broad, try for your own kind, yeah? Dirt.”
He scrunches up his nose, trying to quell the anger that rises in a wave. Darry always told him to keep his mouth shut and keep it shut good any time a Soc is in his face like this.
“Yeah!” Randy tacks on, clearly too drunk to be anything more than a yes-man at this point.
“You know what a greaser is, grease?” Bob asks, his eyes cruel and hard as he reaches for the hand that has the switchblade, missing by about a mile in his drunken state. “White trash with long hair.”
That hatred rises in him, tenfold, as he looks at stupid Bob’s stupid face.
Unfortunately, he’d never been good at listening to Darry.
“Yeah? You know what a Soc is?” He asks, his voice trembling not just with the cold, but with the white-hot rage that takes over his vision and makes him mouth off no matter the circumstance. He sees some of the Soc buddies leaning closer to hear better. “White trash with Mustangs and Madras.”
Then, just ‘cause he couldn’t think of any insult worthy enough (if Two-Bit were here, he’d find a way to say a million things that would make a Soc girl clutch her chest in shock), he spits on them.
He sees the offense dawning in their eyes and vaguely registers a voice that sounds suspiciously like Darry positively screaming at him to run.
But Bob stands there, cool as a cucumber and mean as a rattlesnake, smiling slowly and leaning back as if trying to get a better view of Pony.
“You know what, greaser? You could use a bath. Maybe the chemicals are seepin’ into your brain and making you forget who your betters are. A bath and a good working over, now don’t that sound nice?” Bob asks, his eyes darkening a tad as he steps forward, crowding Pony even more. “And it’s your lucky night. We’ve got ‘til dawn. Give the kid a bath, David.”
A Soc Pony doesn’t recognize steps up, almost tripping, and Pony makes a break for it. Or tries to, anyway. They’re too close; they could catch him even if he wasn’t half-popsicle.
He gets maybe three steps away before his wrist is being grabbed, and his arm is twisted behind his back, forcing his hand open and making him drop the switchblade as he’s pushed to his knees and his face is dunked in the fountain.
He registers a soft crack, sounding muffled under water. For a minute he thinks it must be the phantom ice, and then the dull, stinging ache from the cheek Darry hadn’t hit. His face must’ve hit the bottom of the fountain.
He wishes it were yesterday, when he could yell for his brothers and know they would come. Even if he did yell, no one would hear him with his head under the water.
The water is numbingly cold against his face, and his hands are flailing, but he can’t see, so it’s useless.
They’d give him a second above the surface, just enough for their laughter to be burned into his brain and the hands on him to switch before he’s back under, barely half a breath keeping him alive during the minute-long stretches.
I don’t wanna die. He thinks as he’s pulled up above the surface, rough hands in his hair, messing it all up and calling for someone to get ‘soap’ before he’s right back under the surface. I don’t want to die.
They're drowning him, and this is the end. Red is seeping into the edges of his vision as he’s pulled up one final time; some kind of liquid is being poured over him. It’s sticky and it stings his eyes when he tries to open them.
As some kind of final, desperate attempt, he kicks his leg out behind him, bringing it back harshly against the edge of the fountain to get some kind of leverage to push back against the hands on him.
Pain explodes behind his eyelids, stars and fireworks shooting out. His knee is screaming, along with his lungs. The impact punches air he doesn’t have out of him and he can’t help the instinct to suck in a breath, taking in water before he can stop himself. The hard object he’d hit his knee on doesn’t move, and he thinks for a second that it must’ve been the fountain. But he gets his bearings a little bit more when they drag him up for air and realizes how small and skinny it is.
The switchblade.
He’s suddenly thrilled that the Socs are drunk, seeming to have forgotten about the blade altogether.
He reaches for it right before they dunk him under again, his fingers fumbling a few times before grasping the handle and flicking it open.
‘Next time a Soc jumps me, I’ll kill ‘em, Pony. Swear to God.’
He hadn’t been the one to say those words, but they ring true in his mind as he swings his arm out behind him wildly, meeting resistance in the form of a solid mass.
The hands on him leave almost immediately, and when he drags his head above the surface, he can hear panicked shouting and the engine of the car starting up again.
He coughs violently, dragging his head over the edge of the fountain.
It’s like he’s in a daze as his hand feels increasingly and oddly warm.
He doesn’t get a chance to look before he passes out, falling onto his face as one of Dally’s favorite old sayings rattling around in his brain.
‘It’s a kill or be killed world, kid. You gotta learn that now or you’ll end up in a ditch.’
Pony wakes up in a haze, for a second just staring up at the black sky that weighs down on him like he’s Atlas.
His hand isn’t warm anymore, it’s freezing, and it feels uncomfortably half-wet, half-dry.
His lungs are still hurting, and he rolls over, coughing up what feels like a gallon of water, vomiting some more when it feels like he’s done.
His hands start shaking, tears burning his eyes as he blinks furiously when he realizes how close he must’ve been to actually dying while they held him under that water.
Glory, is he cold.
He’s pretty sure he took a health class once that said being outside in the freezing weather, especially with no coat, and probably especially especially while soaking wet, can kill you. He’d never had to worry about hypothermia before, though.
He probably has to warm up. He’s never been so excited to go home and see Soda (and Darry’ll probably know what to do so he doesn’t get hypothermia. He always knows things like that; things that Pony doesn’t think about.)
He’s still gulping in fresh air as he escapes into the fantasy of home, of being wrapped in a towel and laying under a blanket with Soda’s arm over him and Darry apologizing and mom and dad still being there.
Another harsh gust of wind pulls him back to reality. The reality that has somehow narrowed to just that pale, washed-out park where he’s slowly catching hypothermia.
He gasps in a shuddering breath and looks to the side, hoping for one, irrational moment that his brothers would be out there. Looking for him or out for some other reason. Just so long as someone can help him home. Just so long as he doesn’t have to drag himself home in this state.
Oh, Darry sure will be upset. He thinks. I can imagine it now. ‘Showing up soaking wet in freezing weather! How on earth did ya get a carful of Socs after ya at 3 in the morning anyhow?’
His musings about what his brother would say are abruptly cut short when he sees the guy on the ground next to him. Bob. His hair is plastered to his forehead, his face waxy in the limited light.
There’s red staining the ground in a large ring around him.
Pony’s never seen a dead body before. Darry was the one to go view their parents. He wouldn’t let Soda or Pony come along. And he was too young to remember back when his grandpa died.
His first instinct is to run to the nearest house and beg them to use their phone so he can call the police. Report that there’s been a murder.
It makes him sick, just thinking that this kid got killed less than 10 feet away from him.
But, with a gut punch-like feeling, he remembers the knife. In part because his knee still twinges with pain every few seconds, and in part because his hand catches his eye, the half-wet half-dry feeling being accompanied by a sickening red shade.
It feels like he just got a bad case of vertigo, almost like the time his dad made him climb a fire lookout tower in the woods. His breathing picks up, coming in increasingly short puffs.
The sun’ll be rising soon. And all of Tulsa will know that Ponyboy Curtis is a murderer.
He remembers Cherry at the movie theater. Saying she thinks he’s one of the good greasers. Not really a hood nor a JD.
Remembers Darry’s countless warnings to keep his nose clean and stay out of trouble.
All that feels like it’s slipping through his fingers. Oh, the Socs’ll have a field day with this, he’s sure. Cruising around talking about how one of the good greasers. One of the smart and mellow ones, had been the one to kill Bob.
God, he feels like throwing up.
Instead, he stumbles to his feet, hating the feeling of blood drenching the knees of his jeans. It feels sticky. Heavier than water, somehow. Or maybe he’s delusional.
He’s running towards the house in a second.
Right before he leaves the park, he stops. He stops so suddenly he almost trips over himself.
What’ll Darry know to do besides keeping him in the house and hope for the best? That might work for Dallas and Two, but Pony lives there. It’ll be the first place the cops check.
He’s shaking, swearing he can hear the ticking of a clock in his ear and sirens in the distance as he fights the urge to run back to his brothers and hope it’ll be okay.
He would go to Dallas; that’s exactly the type of guy who knows how to outrun the law. But he’s not supposed to go near Buck’s place. Besides, he’d go running right to Darry if Pony showed up at his doorstep with a tale like this.
He runs through the annoyingly short list of actual JDs and hoods he knows.
Then he runs through the annoyingly even shorter list of addresses he knows.
Only one name overlaps: Curly Shepard.
His mind is made up, and he pivots, turning left and running toward the Shepard house.
Technically, Shepard territory starts a few blocks away from the house, because the gang operates more downtown, but he’s been by enough times to know where the house actually is.
He runs through a million facts he’s known all his life to leave behind the one he doesn’t want to remember: a guy is dead because of him, not even a mile away.
Angela will be home this early, but she’ll be asleep. Curly might not even be home. Tim definitely will. It seems like Tim is always home, except for when he’s on the run.
That’s the other thing: that whole family is constantly on the run. They can help him. He's sure of it.
He just hopes to God Curly will care enough.
He makes it to the house in record time, going around the side that doesn’t have the driveway, counting three windows before knocking.
He taps his foot, trying to keep moving. The cold is really starting to set in now that he’s not running. His teeth chatter and he’s hardly even shivering at this point, more just jerking around.
Curly comes to the window.
“Hey, man. Whatcha doin’ ‘round here so late? And why ain’t ya usin’ the front door?”
“C-Curl-y.” He says, words barely audible amongst the clicks of his teeth.
“Christ!” Curly exclaims, grabbing Pony by the arms, half-pulling him inside his window, waiting until Pony’s climbed the rest of the way in and slamming the window shut. He grabs the blanket that’s hanging off the foot of his bed and throws it at Pony. “What the hell happened? You’re soaked! And you smell like beer.”
That must’ve been what they poured over his head, then.
Pony’s still shivering, even though it’s warm enough in the Shepard house. He’s not entirely sure it has to do with the cold anymore. The blanket is on the floor next to him, he hadn’t even made an attempt to catch it.
“I killed ‘im.”
His voice sounds dull and unnatural even to his own ears.
“Killed who?”
“Bob.”
Curly looks as if all the blood has drained from his face as he reaches up a hand and smooths out his hair. It's grown since his last stint in the reformatory. “Sheldon?”
Pony nods. He doesn’t feel the same, all-consuming, vertigo-inducing panic as he did before.
He just feels a numbness so complete he isn’t sure what he’s meant to do with it.
“Shit.” Curly says, voice hardly above a whisper as he stands. “I’ve never ki—I need... I need to get Tim for this. C’mon. Man, are you lucky I was here. I was gonna go out tonight even after the Drive-In. I’m outta liquor, y’know. But I didn’t, cuz Tim is having people over. And I don’t like no one going through my stuff, or even lookin’ at it.”
Curly rambles all the way to the kitchen, where he stops. Tim is sitting at a little round table with three other men Pony doesn’t recognize on sight. He’s got a shiner and a busted lip, and Pony’s guess is that Dallas found the fight he’d wanted. Curly speaks up, sounding remarkably quiet for someone who prides himself on being a loudmouth.
“Tim.” he says, stopping whatever round of a card game they were on.
Tim looks up, at first raising an eyebrow when he sees Pony. “Didn’t hear you come in.”
Then he gets more than a second-long look and stands so abruptly the chair almost topples over behind him. “Why the hell is ‘e soaking wet with his face cut up?”
The question is directed at Curly, but it startles Pony a little. He looks at the window, searching for his reflection and any cuts that might be there.
“That don’t matter. He needs outta Tulsa for a while.”
Tim scoffs and gives Pony a searching look. It makes him feel like he’s under a microscope and he shifts his weight from foot to foot. Pony isn’t used to Tim Shepard seeing him at all. Never mind scrutinizing him.
“Why does he need out if someone clearly jumped him? What he needs is to go back to his own damn brothers.”
“You don’t get it, Tim. He—”
“I killed him.” Pony cuts in, his brain finally breaking out of that dull shell it’d been in since he climbed in through Curly’s window. “Oh God. Oh. Oh, no. I killed him. I murdered him.”
Pony doesn’t think he’s ever seen Tim past his tough guy persona in public. But he does now. The man’s jaw is practically dropped, his eyes wide.
“Who?”
“Bob. He was—They had me underwater. I didn’t mean to do it. But I killed him. With Johnny’s switchblade. Shit, Johnny’s blade is still there.”
Curly puts a hand on Pony’s shoulder as he starts muttering, barely aware of the world around him.
“I killed him.”
He snaps out of it only when Tim grabs him by the shoulders and practically shouts his name. “Pony!”
He’s jerked back to reality. Tim never calls him by his name. If it’s anything it’s always kid or Curtis.
“You done good, kid. They woulda killed ya.” He says slowly, like Pony’s gonna bolt for the door at any moment.
“The courts ain’t gonna care.” He says, near silently.
Tim sighs. “I know they won’t.”
He turns around, looking to the three boys at the table. “None of you were here tonight and none of you know anything about what Curtis just said, savvy?”
He gets three quick nods, and he waits for a moment, seeming like he’s judging the truth in each one of them before jerking his chin towards the door. “Scram.”
They’re alone in two seconds flat.
“One of those dummies is gonna talk, Tim.” Curly mutters and Tim glares at him.
“Not before Curtis is well outta town.”
“Where’re ya gonna send him?”
“Same place I send you every time you screw up. Windrix.”
Curly scoffs. “Ya can’t send him there. Winston knows the place.”
Tim nails Curly with a glare. “Winston knows any place I’d send the kid. We share all our spots.”
“Yeah, whatever man.”
Pony’s 90% sure the sirens he hears aren’t hallucinations this time. Tim sucks his teeth and takes two steps to the counter, peering out the window before opening a cabinet and pulling out a coffee can. “He won’t even make it to the train tracks without getting picked up. We’re too close if we can hear the fuzz.”
“I was gonna go to Dally.” Pony’s barely whispering, but Tim hears it anyway.
“Why the hell didn’t ya? Woulda put more space between you and them.”
“I’m not supposed to go ‘round Buck’s place. Darry says nothing good happens there.”
Tim gives him an odd look, but Pony isn’t sure what emotion is hiding in his stare. “Where’d you say you stabbed the kid?”
“I didn’t say. But it was over at Crutchfield Park.”
Tim slams the coffee can onto the counter and turns to face him, eyes blazing. “That’s hardly a mile from here!”
Pony tucks his hands under his arms again; shoulders raised up to his ears. “I was trying to go home!”
Tim turns around again, gripping the counter. “Who exactly was the kid?”
Pony flinches at the use of past tense but answers. “Bob Sheldon.”
“Dammit.”
Tim grabs the very top wad of cash from the coffee can and turns around, tossing it to Pony. He’s never held this much money in his life. It must be at least 50 bucks. Maybe more.
“I can’t take this. I don’t wanna owe ya nothin’.” He says, which makes Tim roll his eyes with the same flair that usually only Angela can pull off. It looks remarkably similar, considering Tim’s a six-foot grown man and Angie’s a hardly five-foot-five teenage girl.
“Ya ain’t gonna owe me nothing if I gave it to ya without you askin’.”
Pony shrugs.
Tim sighs. “Just call half of it money for you and half of it gas money, yeah?”
Curly steps in, taking the cash from Pony’s hands. “He doesn’t know how to drive!”
Pony tunes out the conversation (argument?) between the two brothers until Curly grabs his shoulder and steers him back towards Curly’s room.
Once they’re in there, he tosses him a new shirt and a towel. “Dry off or you’ll freeze to death before we even get to the car.”
“You’re coming?” Pony asks, slipping off his shirt and trying to dry off the best he can in under a minute before putting the new one on.
It’s big on him, but not any bigger than Soda’s are. The thought of Soda is like driving a knife through his heart.
“Unless you learned how to drive in the past four months since I’ve seen ya.” Curly says, as if it would be impossible for Pony to learn how to drive in four months.
“What do you think’ll happen to my brothers?” Pony asks quietly and Curly sighs.
“Man, I don’t know. I never had to worry about my family when I was on the run. It probably won’t be nothin’ terrible. Now come on, the neighborhood’ll be crawling with cops by dawn.”
Pony nods numbly, following Curly past the kitchen, where Tim is looking out the window, at the street.
Pony ducks his head as soon as he’s out of the house, letting Curly steer him to one of the cars that looks to be in better shape.
“This is Tim’s car. He never lets me use it except when I’m on the run because it’s the only one we can be sure won’t break down.”
Pony nods, sitting in the passenger seat and looking out the window as Curly starts the car and backs out.
Idle chatter fills the air, and Pony isn’t sure if Curly wants him to respond to any of it or not, so he doesn’t.
They have to take the long way around Brumly instead of cutting through it because Marco Reilly is still pissed at Curly for breaking the windshield on his car.
He sees the exact moment the city ends because it’s pretty much a hard line of houses that turn into woods.
When they’re in the woods, trees surrounding them and only a few houses peeking through the forest at them, he knows he finally left Tulsa.
Just like that, he’s left his home behind. The crickets sing their farewell faintly, drowned out by the noise of a train’s whistle and police sirens downtown.
It isn’t at all what he imagined.
It feels pretty terrible, actually.