Chapter Text
Sodapop Curtis loved summertime. Well, he still counted it as technically summer, though September was almost over. One could spend all day outside. His freckles popped, and he quite liked his freckles. His little brother—Ponyboy—and the other littles he watched could spend their time running around or playing on the swingset or in the sandbox. The sound of their play and laughter never failed to make him smile, too.
Soda liked his life. It hadn’t been easy, though, especially in the past eight months. His parents had died in an auto wreck that January, leaving him and his twenty-year-old brother, Darry, with a ten-month-old brother to raise.
Ponyboy was eighteen months now and thriving. He explored the world with bright eyes and knew a lot of words for his age, the pediatrician said. He probably knew close to a hundred by now, and Sodapop couldn’t be prouder of him.
Soda didn’t know where all of those smarts came from, given that Pony was with Soda for most of the day. It must’ve been something written in the toddler’s brain, nothing that his surroundings could change.
Pony toddled around the yard now, chasing after a monarch butterfly and shrieking with delight. Four other children around his age or a little older played with each other or on their own as Soda supervised.
It was never the kind of work he’d expected to have, but it was practical. If someone needed to be home watching Pony anyway, why not make a career out of it? It made good money, and it let one of the brothers get to stay home with Pony.
“Doh-da!”
Said little brother came toddling toward him, arms outstretched. Laughing, Soda scooped him up and swung him around, making him shriek with delight. “Hey, little man! Whatcha up to?”
“Boo-fee!”
“I know! I saw you with that butterfly. It was a nice pretty orange color, wasn’t it? Can you say ‘orange?’”
“Ohge!”
“Good job, baby!” Soda kissed his cheek and set him back down when the phone rang inside. “I’ll be right back. That might be one of your friend’s parents. Go play now.”
Soda never left the children alone for more than a minute or two alone at a time. But there were circumstances where stepping away briefly was necessary. This was a business, after all. These were other people’s children. So, if their parents called, he needed to be available to talk to them.
Sure enough, the phone call was one of the parents, but of the child that had not been dropped off today. Soda learned that the kid wouldn’t be coming; she had gotten sick and had to stay home. Soda thanked her mother for the information, then headed back to the fenced-in backyard where the kids were playing.
Soda sat back down, enjoying the lingering summer warmth. September was waning. Fall would be coming soon. He wanted to enjoy this weather while it lasted.
He saw the two-year-old twins, brother and sister, in the sandbox, dumping sand on each other’s heads. The three-year-old giggled as she draped herself over the swing. The two-and-a-half-year-old had sat himself in the grass.
Soda’s brow furrowed as his gaze travelled the yard. Where had Pony run off to? The confusion turned to cold panic as he scanned the yard, not seeing him. “Pony?”
He stood and walked around the yard, peeking around the swingset, sandbox, and bushes. Not there. He couldn’t have gotten over the fence. He couldn’t have unlatched the gate either. The latch was too high for any of the children to reach. “Ponyboy! Answer me, honey! I’m not playin’ games, no hide-and-seek. Come out now!”
When he got no response, his chest heaved with fright. Where had he gone? This had never happened before. It didn’t make any sense.
“Where did Pony go?” he asked the others. But they either hadn’t been paying attention, couldn’t answer him the way he needed, or just didn’t care about anything other than their playtime.
“Henry,” he asked the toddler in the grass. “Do you know—”
His words cut off when he followed the little boy’s gaze. He was sitting in the corner of the yard, next to the old abandoned well that had been sitting there, covered, for ages. It was tiny, just a bit of pipe jutting from the ground. Just eight inches around. Only—
The stone that covered it was off.
A faint cry reached his ears. A cry that would pull him out of any deep sleep. A cry that tugged at his heart every time he heard it. A cry that drove him into action to comfort, each and every time.
Ponyboy’s cry. Far away. Echoey.
Henry pointed down at the open water well.
Soda’s heart dropped to his feet.
“Ponyboy?!” Soda fell to the ground, reaching his arm down into the pipe, all the way up to his shoulder. “Ponyboy!” He could hear him more clearly now, crying. “Oh, God, oh, God, no, please, Pony!”
Lord, he’d fallen in.
“It’s okay, baby!” he screamed, his voice getting shriller and shriller. “Soda’s gonna get you out! Oh, my baby!” His voice pitched into a wail. Nothing. He felt nothing! How far down had he fallen? “Help me, please! Ponyboy! My baby!” He pushed himself to his feet and stumbled toward the house, nearly tripping over his own feet to get back to the phone. He needed help. He needed help now.
He nearly tore the phone off the wall, and his hand shook as he sobbed and dialled 911. “Hello? Hello, help me! My baby! My baby, he’s fallen in a water well, and I can’t get him out! Help me, please, he’s only eighteen months!”
“I hear you, sir, what’s your address?”
“731 North St Louis Avenue!”
“I’m dispatching help to your location now—”
As soon as he heard that, Soda left the phone and took off back outside.
Mrs. Mathews from next door was in the yard, tending to the children, some of whom were crying. She must’ve heard the commotion. Tears ran hot down Soda’s cheeks, and he dropped next to the pipe again, grabbing the edges and slamming his hands against the dirt. “Pony! Pony, baby, can you hear me? Can you answer me? It’s Soda, Soda’s here.”
“Soda, what’s wrong, is—” Mrs. Mathews cut off, her face growing pale as realization hit her. “He isn’t—”
“He is!” Soda cried. “I—I don’t know how, I only went inside for a minute—but now he’s—he’s—”
“Shh.” Mrs. Mathews put a hand on his back as his chest heaved, panic coursing through him so bad he felt his heart might split. “You need to breathe, dear.”
“I—I can’t!”
“You can. With me, now. In, out, Soda.”
Though it felt like a lifetime, it was probably only a few minutes before emergency help showed up. Soda’s head shot up at the sound of the sirens, and he ran into the front yard to escort the help in. There was an ambulance. A couple of cop cars. Was that enough? How were they going to help?
But Soda had to have faith. Oh, Ponyboy, I’m so sorry.