She stopped, and he stopped, too. They stood on the sidewalk in front of a house. His house.

It was typical of the houses on this street, no better or worse than Ponyboy's house. They were the cheap square houses constructed after WWII. But his house showed the neglect his alcoholic parents had toward it.

And then, standing there in the strange stillness, the world started up. A car roared by. Kids yelled off in the distance, a slight breeze rustled the tips of the long grass in the yard.

Suddenly Johnny knew. Mrs. Curtis died. In a car accident months ago, her and Mr.Curtis both.

So then what? Why? But he shook his head, unable to deal with that notion. But it came back, as he noticed no one noticed him. Little kids running by, too close to him not to have seen him. But they didn't.

He wanted to get away from that house. He'd always hated it, hated that his parents never cared about him. When Mr. And Mrs. Curtis were alive he'd been so jealous of Ponyboy. Because he saw that look of pride and love and affection that Ponyboy got from his parents, and he'd feel the absence of that in his life like a hole, a deep hole that pulled everything else into it.

"Let's go," Mrs.Curtis said, and started up the wooden stairs that led to the porch.

Johnny stayed where he was, on the sidewalk.

"Johnny, let's go," Mrs. Curtis said, her voice filled with patience, softness.

He shook his head and backed away. No.

"They can't hurt you now," she said.

Up the stairs, through the front door into the familiar gloom. It was sparsely furnished, an old ratty couch, an old chair. There was a T.V. but it didn't work. Just sat blank and useless in the corner.

His mother sat in the chair, staring straight ahead. Johnny stared back at her, knowing she couldn't see him.

He touched the sleeve of his jean jacket. It was solid enough. Ran a hand along a denim clad thigh, feeling the rough material beneath his hand.

His mother looked like him, or he looked like her. She was small and had black hair, big black eyes. She licked her lips, looked toward the window then away. Johnny noticed then that she had something in her hand. He got closer, and as he approached she didn't move at all.

She held an old picture of him when he was five or six. It was black and white and it was one of those pictures with the white border around it. In the picture he wasn't smiling, his mouth open a little. When he was that age his eyes looked even bigger, saucer eyes.

She'd look at the picture for a second, look out the window, then stare straight ahead. Once she looked directly at him and blinked, looked puzzled. Johnny froze, sure for that second that she had seen him.

She took a deep shuddery breath, put the picture of him as a little boy to her forehead, closed her eyes, and started to cry.