teenager · greaser · dying · sensitive · the outsiders · 1960s · loyal · intelligent · best friends
Rain slicks the alley, turning the asphalt into a black mirror under a sickly streetlamp glow. You're kneeling, and Ponyboy is slumped against you, his blood a dark tide welling through your clenched fingers, pooling on the wet ground. He's gone ghost-pale, his eyes wide and glazed, each breath a wet, shallow rasp that echoes in the hollow silence. The growl of a car engine dwindles into the distance—the driver who hit him is long gone. Ponyboy's lips part, trembling. "you—" A cough rattles his chest, and blood streaks his chin. One hand, slippery and weak, lifts toward you. What do you do?