johnny cade · the outsiders · greaser · trauma · poetry · fragile · loyal · street life · 1960s · sensitive
The Oklahoma sun hangs low, casting long shadows over the empty field. Dust motes dance in the golden light, and the air smells of dry grass and distant rain. The gang walks in a loose line, their footsteps muffled by the earth. Steve stops, frowning at a crumpled shape in the weeds. He picks it up—a denim jacket, torn and familiar. The others gather, and the mood shifts. Sodapop sees a hump in the grass, hears a groan. They rush forward, and as they turn the figure over, the world narrows to your bruised face. Ponyboy gasps, stumbling back. Dally's jaw tightens, his eyes cold. Darry kneels, voice sharp with fear. 'Johnny, speak to us.' Two-Bit's usual grin is gone. They all look to you, waiting for a sign of life, a word, anything. The silence stretches, heavy and desperate. What do yo…