If it looks familiar, this is the first chapter of my Ten Years Later rewrite. This is the chapter that's most similar to it's original version. After this, it's mostly . . . different.

I selected the title of this story from the lyrics of one of my favorite songs just two weeks before its writer/singer passed away. I truly hope that he is now with the man who inspired the song – his father.

Disclaimer: S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders.

Chapter 1

Yesterday I found my strength in the eyes of a child – frightened, lost, and alone, but not without confidence that the adults would figure things out and the world would be better by tomorrow.

I picked the top folder from my pile, leaned back in my government-issue swivel chair, and opened it. "Victor?"

The boy sitting on the other side of my desk glared at me. "It's Vic."

"Vic it is, then." What's your story, Vic? Thirteen years old. No siblings. Mother – skipped town two years ago after dumping the kid off with dad. Father –

I glanced up at Vic. There was still a decent bruise next to his left eye. How long ago had it been? I consulted the file again – two weeks. I took another look at him. His dark angry eyes bore into me, and his hair stuck out in unruly wisps like he hadn't combed it in . . . well, in two weeks. When a bunch of strangers take over your life, you maintain control in some of the only things you have left – like not combing your hair. No one's going to hold you down and do that for you.

"Are we almost done, man?"

"Pony," I told him.

He looked confused. "What?"

"You can call me Pony. That's my name."

Vic smirked at me. "As in, not big enough to be a horse?"

I grinned. "No. As in, adorable animal that chicks like to ride." I figured that would get him, and I was right. He had to look down at the floor so I wouldn't see his almost-smile. "So how come you hit Mr. Farnum?"

He shrugged. "He was in my face."

"Oh yeah? He says he asked you four times to move your stuff up to your bed."

"Maybe he's lying. Maybe he didn't say nothing. Maybe he just grabbed me by my shirt and waved a fist in my face for no reason except he don't like me."

"Maybe. But did he?" I leaned back in my chair with a sigh and tossed the folder onto the desk. Vic was avoiding eye contact, pretending he was intently interested in my pen holder. "Look, Vic, you can't go hitting people you don't like. I realize you're in a bad situation, but that kind of thing will only make it worse for you. They won't put up with that over there. The only reason you didn't get tossed right back into juvie is because a couple people owed me favors." As soon as the words were out, I knew I'd said the wrong thing.

Vic clenched his teeth. "Don't you dare save my ass and then expect me to suck your cock. I never asked for your help."

I put up a hand. "You're right. You're absolutely right. You don't owe me a thing. Not even gratitude. But you owe yourself better. You know? Just don't hit anybody. Can you at least handle that? Because you know as well as I do that you'll be hard enough to place as it is." More like impossible, I thought, but kept that one to myself. Sorry kid, no one wants a thirteen-year-old hoodlum who spent two months in juvenile hall for armed robbery. Forget that you were stealing a box of cupcakes, and that you were waving a penknife at the cashier who caught you. Tough break. We can't pay anyone enough to take you home. I was tempted to retract my advice and tell him to go ahead and go hog wild, because there were some people out there who could really use a good whack in the face. In my opinion, Ted Farnum was one of them; but I also knew how pointless it was for a kid like Vic to try to take on the world on his own. That was the kind of thing that had gotten Dally nothing but dead.

"Are we done yet?"

Some of the desks around us were emptying out. I looked at the clock – three minutes till noon. Protocol dictated that I should wrap this up now. But for some reason, I couldn't. Eight months into the job, a filing drawer packed with backlogged case files, and I couldn't let this one kid go back to the group home for a lunch of boiled chicken and canned vegetables. I had no idea why. Maybe it had something to do with Dallas Winston popping into my head. I mean, the kid didn't even like me.

"Hungry?" I asked him.

"Huh?"

"You do eat, don't you? Let's go get lunch." I wasn't sure exactly what I was doing, but I couldn't put that kid back in the pile. Not just yet.

Vic made a point of staring out the window and ignoring me as I drove, which was just fine with me. I've never been one for the mindless time-filling chit chat that people actually think makes life less awkward. If you don't have something useful to say, keep your mouth shut. Vic was sure doing a good job of that.

He looked so young. It had been eleven years since I was that young, and it seemed like I must have looked older than he did. Probably not. That's probably why Darry had worried about me so much – when he had looked at me when I was thirteen, he'd probably seen a little kid that the world was ready to take into its claws and suck the life out of. I wondered if I still looked that young to him.

"Well, here we are." Talk about your mindless chatter. Like the kid needed me telling him we'd pulled in and I had stopped the car. I'll tell you, you get people telling you your whole life how quiet you are, and you sometimes actually start to believe that there's something wrong with that.

We went inside, and I sat across from Vic in the booth and watched him polish off two sandwiches and a large fries. He still looked hungry.

He looked something else, too.

He thought he was hiding it well, and he was from most people, but I could see it as plain as day. After growing up in my neighborhood, I guess I can see through the mask more often than not. Vic was good, but not good enough.

"I know you're scared."

He glared at me again, like I knew he would. "You don't know anything. You don't know me at all."

Oh, but I do know you. Different name, different face, but I know you.

You're Dallas Winston. You're Johnny Cade.

You're who I could have been, without my brothers.

I stared at Vic and watched him shift uncomfortably under my gaze. I knew I was deciding on something that would have a major impact on more than one person. Good, or bad? I guess life would be a lot easier if we always had the answer to our choices right in front of us. I would have known to not run away the night Darry had hit me (or, at the very least, to not wake up Johnny and walk to the park).

As I sat staring at uncomfortably-shifting Vic, I was struck by the impression that I was at the pound, gazing through the bars and wondering if he was housebroken yet. That was what did it. I looked into the eyes of the kicked puppy sitting across from me, and I leaned close. "I know you hate me. I know you think I'm the last person in the world who gives a crap about you." Vic stopped chewing. "Well, Vic, today is your lucky day."

He tried for bored sarcasm. "Why? Did I win the lottery?"

"Better. You're not alone anymore."

Vic's expression faltered, just for an instant. He still didn't trust me, but he wanted to believe me, and that was a start. If only I'd had some idea what I was getting myself into that day.

But then, if I had, there's a good chance I would have driven that kid straight back to the boys' home right then and there.