Helpless

Terror

Soda POV

"I don't know what to do, Steve," I nearly cried to my best friend. "He's sick and he's scared and there's nothing we can do to save him..."

Please don't let me cry here, I thought, desperately holding back the tears, just don't let me cry here, I don't want to cry, I can't cry in front of everyone, don't let me cry...

Steve rested his hand on my shoulder. "How bad is it, Soda?"

I turned away, looking off down the hall, remembering bits and pieces of what the doc had said, remembering the violent sickness that had seized my stomach when I saw the circles clinging to his lungs, remembering the pallor of Pony's face when the doctor finally said cancer. And how he'd gotten whiter and whiter as the treatments were described, as he realized that there really wasn't too much hope for him. I'd sat with him when Darry walked the doctor to the door, before Two-Bit had knocked.

"We're gonna get you through this," I'd murmured, fighting my own tears. Pony'd just closed his eyes and laid very, very still. I'd touched his arm. "We will. We'll do whatever it takes. You just gotta fight, hear me kid? You fight and we'll get you whatever we have to..."

"Soda?" my brother'd whimpered, reaching for my hand. "Can you just be quiet and sit with me?"

He'd been trembling all over, fighting with the little strength he had to keep the tears inside when they were dying to spill out. I'd stroked his hair in silence, fighting my own emotions, trying to call on strength I wasn't sure I had.

"Soda?" Steve's voice snapped me back to the hallway. "How bad is it?"

I took a deep breath. "It's not that...advanced I guess you'd call it," I started, trying to understand exactly what had been told to us. "But there isn't really any sure cure...and the stuff's that's out there is so expensive. And there's no guarantee on anything..."

Steve was silent. I heard him strike a match, and suddenly he pressed a cigarette between my fingers. I put it to my lips and inhaled without a word, relieved as my trembling slowed down.

"I won't call these cancer sticks anymore," Steve mumbled. Comments like that never had won him friends: but I understood him. He was just confused, and ticked off that Pony had to be sick because he didn't deserve to be, and he didn't have a decent way to deal. Because there was nothing to make this feel better: it hurt.

"Look," Steve said awkwardly, looking away as he smoked, "whatever happens...if you wanna talk or something...I just mean, Two-Bit and I are gonna help."

I looked him straight in the eyes and managed a small but sincere grin. "I know."

I could count on him. I'd always been able to count on him.

For the first time since Darry'd called the station, I felt like things could be okay. And then the door flew open and Two-Bit said: 'get help,' as inside Ponyboy let out a wail of terror.