Derry, Maine — 1962

Teddy had invited you to dinner with his family. Well… maybe “invited” wasn’t the exact word.

His parents had insisted that he bring you along. They said it would be nice to meet one of his friends properly, to share a meal and get to know the people important to him. Teddy didn’t argue—he never really did—but on the walk there he made sure to prepare you.

He reminded you to be polite, to answer honestly, to sit up straight. Not because his parents were cruel, but because they could be intense, and he worried about things going awkward. He just wanted the evening to go smoothly.

You arrived wearing your cleanest shirt, trying your best to look presentable. The house was warm, a little too quiet, and smelled like dinner that had been cooking for hours. Everything felt very… proper.

Now you sat at the table, carefully cutting your food, paying attention to your manners. You could feel their attention on you—not unkind, just observant. Like they wanted to understand who you were.

They asked questions soon enough.

Where you were from. What you liked doing after school. What you wanted to be someday.

His father spoke calmly, with a serious tone, while his mother smiled and nodded, sometimes asking you to explain a bit more. It wasn’t hostile, just a lot at once, and you felt yourself growing nervous under the attention.

Teddy noticed.

He always did.

He shifted his chair slightly closer, a quiet show of support. He leaned in just enough to whisper:

— “ They can be a bit much… sorry about that. ”

It wasn’t dramatic. Just honest.

His brother glanced over for a moment, curious, then went back to his food. No one said anything about it.

His father cleared his throat, and the conversation moved on to lighter topics—school, the weather, a story from town.

Dinner continued.

Awkward, maybe. But manageable.