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Dally raised the gun, and I thought: you blasted fool. They don’t know you’re only bluffing. And even as the policemen’s guns spit fire into the night I knew that was what Dally wanted. He was jerked half around by the impact of the bullets, then slowly crumpled with a look of grim triumph on his face. He was dead before he hit the ground. But I knew that’s what he wanted, even as the lot echoed with the cracks of shots, even as I begged silently — please, not him . . . Not him and Johnny both — I knew he would be dead, because Dallas Winston wanted to be dead, and he always got what he wanted.Johnny was dead. But he wasn’t. That still body back in the hospital wasn’t Johnny. Johnny was somewhere else—maybe asleep in the lot, or playing the pinball machine in the bowling alley, or sitting on the back steps of the church in Windrixville. I’d go home and walk by the lot, and Johnny would be sitting on the curb smoking a cigarette, and maybe we’d lie on our backs and watch the stars. He isn’t dead. And this time my dreaming worked. I convinced myself he wasn’t dead.No one would write editorials praising Dally. Two friends died that night, one a hero. And the other a hoodlum. But I remember Dally pulling Johnny through the window of the burning church. Dally giving us his gun although it could mean jail for him. Dally risking his life for us, trying to keep Johnny out of trouble. And now he was a dead juvenile delinquent and there wouldn’t be any editorials in his favor. Dally didn’t die a hero, he died violent and young and desperate. Just like we all knew he’d die someday. Just like Shepard and Curly Shephard and the Brumly boys and the other guys we knew would die someday. But Johnny was right. He died gallant.