A/N: I'm sorry for the long wait! Not to be /that/ person, but my dog passed away a few weeks ago, and he really was my best friend. Ironically enough, his name was Dallas, and I just haven't been up to writing. The updates should be coming faster again though.

Thank you for all of the feedback so far! I really do appreciate it! I'd love to hear your thoughts on this chapter even though it kind of feels like a filler chapter?

Shoutout to DrMcNeedy for being my Beta, and for being my sounding board as I write this story.

As always, I still don't own any of the characters or the story created by S.E. Hinton.

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It's going to be a miserable summer. A hot, miserable summer. That much is already clear. It's barely June, and it feels like the middle of July. The living room feels like a hot box, especially since our only fan broke back in spring, and we still can't afford to buy a new one.

The air is still and thick, almost suffocating, without any circulation. I have the front and back door pushed wide open, hoping a breeze will blow through. So far, no such luck.

I sit on the couch with the crossword puzzle from the newspaper open in front of me on the coffee table. I push my hair back out of my face, which is damp with sweat, and study the next question.

Another word for gas. Six letters.

I chew on the end of the eraser, running through all the possibilities in my head. Another word for gas? What did that even mean? Sodapop works at a gas station, and I've never heard him use anything but gas. Except gasoline, which is longer than six letters.

With a frustrated sigh, I close the newspaper and decide to come back to it later.

I head outside, not being able to take the stuffiness of the house any longer. I study the lawn again. My eyes sweeping over every inch, hoping to find a spot Curly missed. Any indication that he hasn't done such a great job after all. There was none. I hated to admit it, even to myself, but Curly really had done a good job. Maybe as good a job as Dad would have done.

In a way, it bothered me. That someone could do the lawn as good as him, I mean. I didn't like the thought that he was replaceable in anyway.

With a sigh, I lower myself to the front step, my eyes still lingering on the grass. When I first stepped out on the porch earlier and saw Curly of all people out here, I was irritated and pretty surprised, but mostly irritated.

Waking up to the sound of the loud engine of the lawnmower confused me, and I lay in bed listening to the familiar sound that I haven't heard in so long. Not many people in our neighborhood have a motorized lawnmower, so for a second I closed my eyes and allowed myself to be convinced that it was Dad out there. That if I walked outside it would be him pushing the mower.

"Beautiful day for cutting the grass, Cassie girl," he'd call out to me over the roar of the engine, and I'd grin at him.

"You think every day is a beautiful day for cutting grass," I would yell back, still grinning.

But when I had opened my eyes, I was in my room, and I knew it wouldn't be Dad outside.

Even though it's been a few hours, the smell of freshly cut grass still lingers, and I inhale deeply. I have always loved that smell.

I never intended to thank Curly. Yell at him for basically breaking into the shed and taking out the lawnmower without permission, maybe. But showing gratitude? No.

As soon as the smell hit my senses though, I felt my anger diminish slightly, and a longing stirred deep inside of me. A longing for when I was young and everything was simpler. A longing for a time when an older brother didn't have to break his back to support three kids and when parents didn't die.

I shake those thoughts away when I see Ponyboy walking down the sidewalk. He pauses at the gate and looks around, confusion written on his face. It really has been too long since the lawn was mowed.

"You mowed the lawn?" He asks, his voice filled with so much astonishment it's actually kind of insulting.

"I can mow the lawn," I say, gnashing my teeth together.

"It looks good," he says, digging out a cigarette from his pocket.

"But I didn't."

"Didn't what?" He asks, lighting up and blowing smoke out of his nose. A trick he recently picked up and is quite proud of.

"Mow the lawn," I clarify.

"But you just said..."

"I said I can, not that I did."

"Okay..." Ponyboy says slowly, "then who did?"

"Curly," I answer sourly.

His eyes go wide in surprise. "Curly? As in Shepard?"

"No," I say flatly. "Curly from The Three Stooges. Moe and Larry were here too. Was quite the riot. Sorry you missed it."

"But why?" Ponyboy asks, choosing to ignore what I just said.

"Beats me." I reply.

"That was nice of him." Ponyboy says, more like a question than a statement.

"Nice?" I nearly screech. "He broke into our shed!"

"It was locked?"

"No," I grumble, "but he stole our lawnmower."

Ponyboy shoots to his feet. "He took it with him?" He demands, his eyes narrowing.

"Well...no...He put it back when he was done with it."

Pony visibly relaxes. "So, he didn't steal it?"

"He took it without permission. Last time I checked that's stealing."

"But he returned it." Pony reasons and leans against the railing. It must be loose though because he almost falls through it but catches himself in time. I bite back a smile.

"You okay?" I ask.

"Fine. Are you okay?"

I look at him in confusion. "Yeah. Why wouldn't I be?"

"You just seem awfully bent out of shape over this Curly thing."

"I'm not bent out of shape." I pause. "I'm just weirded out."

"Maybe he was just being nice?" Pony suggests. I shake my head and jab my finger into the air.

"The Shepard's are never nice unless they want something." I learned that the hard way.

"What would he want?" Ponyboy asks.

"Maybe he was casing the place?" I muse.

"Yeah? And what would he steal, Cass? Our black and white set? We don't have anything worth taking."

I huff in response because I know Pony's right but I'm not gonna admit it.

"I'm heading inside in case paranoia is contagious." He drops his cigarette on the front porch and steps on it before walking into the house. I glare after him.

Sodapop was probably my favorite brother, but Ponyboy was still the brother I was closest too. Sharing a room most of our lives up until a few years ago had instilled a bond between us.

But constantly being together growing up also meant we fought the most. I resented him for being so smart. Always having his head in a book. One time when we were little and fighting, I had yelled, "If you keep filling your head with so many big words it's gonna explode and I hope it does!"

"That's not even possible," Ponyboy had replied, his tone as condescending as it could be at six.

Angrily I picked up one of his books and heaved it at his head which he dodged easily.

Mom saw though, and demanded I apologize. "Sorry," I mumbled.

"For?" Mom prompted.

"For missing your fat head." I spent thirty minutes in the corner for that one, but it had been worth the look on Pony's face.

I stay out on the front porch a little longer before I can't stand the sun pounding down on me for another minute.

After getting a glass of water from the kitchen sink, I settle back on the couch and open the newspaper back up.

"What's another word for gas?" I ask Pony when he wanders into the living room. "Six letters."

"Petrol?" He suggests.

"Thanks," I say, quickly jotting it down.

He drops down onto the couch beside me and takes a long drink from my water.

Neither of us say anything. I work on the puzzle while Ponyboy takes an occasional sip from the water.

Sitting in silence with Pony isn't awkward like it would be with anyone else. I never feel the need to fill the silence with meaningless chatter like I do with Darry, and Soda can rarely stay quiet, so there's not many moments of quietness with him.

With Ponyboy though, it's easy. Comfortable. He's content with just letting you be.

This time it's different though. I can feel the tension rolling off Ponyboy in waves, and he's already on his second cigarette.

"Everything okay?" I finally ask.

"Yeah," Ponyboy answers, puffing away on his cigarette.

I put my pencil down, and turn towards Pony, curling my legs underneath me.

"Come on out with it," I press.

He doesn't say anything for a few minutes, but I continue to stare at him expectantly, waiting for him to crack.

It doesn't take much with Ponyboy.

"Okay, fine," he says, stabbing his cigarette out. "I'll tell you. Just stop looking at me like that."

I grin in victory, and he rolls his eyes.

"Okay," he begins, leaning forward, and resting his elbows on his knees. "It's really not that big of a deal, but my dreams have been coming back."

Despite the heat, I feel chilled by his words, immediately knowing what he is talking about. After Mom and Dad's funeral, Pony started having nightmares, and almost every night we'd wake up to his blood curdling screams. I'm not sure who the dreams scared more, him or us.

He must see the alarm on my face because he quickly says, "They haven't been that bad."

"How bad?" I ask softly.

"I haven't been screaming at least. Which you probably noticed." He smiles weakly.

"How bad, Pony?" I ask again.

His teeth go to his lower lip and dig in, a habit from his childhood I thought he had long since broken. "They scare me, Cass, they really scare me."

I grab his hand and squeeze it. "It's gonna be okay. We'll tell Darry and... -"

"No!" Ponyboy says forcefully, yanking his hand back. "Don't tell Darry."

"We have to," I say.

"No. I don't want to bother him more than I already do."

"You don't bother him!" I protest, but Pony's shaking his head. "Pony," I plead with him, reaching for his hand again. "Darry can take you a doctor who can figure this out."

"I'm fine."

"Being scared is not fine..."

"The dreams don't happen that often, and they ain't that bad."

I let out a long breath, pressing the palm of my hand against my forehead. I don't want to say anything and risk upsetting Ponyboy even more, but we have to tell Darry. Whether Pony likes it or not.

"Remember when we were real young, and Dad took us to that baseball game?" I ask.

Ponyboy shakes his head slowly.

"You were only three or four," I go on, smiling at the memory. "It was such a beautiful day. I had never seen Dad and Darry so excited."

"How do you remember this? You're not that much older than me." Ponyboy says, sounding a little annoyed that I remember something he doesn't.

"I've always had a better memory," I say a little smugly.

"Your memory sure don't work when it comes to math," he replies, and I pinch his arm.

"Anyway," I say. "Like I said you must've been around three, and Darry ten, and at some point, he had you hoisted up on his shoulders, and this lady gushed about how adorable the two of you looked and even asked to take a picture."

I can see a faint tint of red on Ponyboy's cheeks. "I ain't adorable," he mutters.

"Well, not anymore." I agree. "I don't know what happened. Boy howdy, if that lady took a picture now, your ugly mug would break her camera!"

"Shut up," Pony grumbles, but I can tell he's fighting a smile. "Did you have a point to that story?" He asks, and I shrug.

"Just that things haven't always been so tense between you two, and he does love you."

"Yeah, sure."

"He does Pony. He just wants what's best for you," I can tell Pony doesn't believe a word I'm saying, and I decide not to push it.

"I'm gonna go out for a bit," he says, pushing himself off the couch and heads toward the door.

"Where?" I question.

"Just around." He pushes open the screen door, but before he steps out, he glances at me over his shoulder. "Don't tell Darry, okay?"

"Pony..."

"I don't even know why I told you. Ain't like you can do anything."

I don't say anything, and Ponyboy sighs.

"I'll tell him if they get worse. He already has enough stress let's not add anymore for now, alright?"

Low blow.

"Alright ..." I reluctantly agree, not liking it one bit.

"Promise?" He asks.

"Promise."

He flashes me a smile. "Thank, Cass. I knew I could count on you," he says before bounding down the steps, and I hope he's right.