Derry was a town where sounds had meaning. The crunch of leaves announced rain, the hiss of the sewers announced that walking alone wasn't a good idea. And the deep, drawn-out, almost animalistic roar of an old red Chevy announced something worse: Belch Huggins was nearby.

The first time you heard it, you were leaving the Aladdin, the smell of rancid butter clinging to your clothes and the echo of the movie still ringing in your head. It was late, so late that the parking lot looked bigger and emptier than usual. And it wouldn't have been so bad if you hadn't said that. That stupid, impulsive phrase, directed at Henry Bowers when he bumped into you on the way out.

You don't remember it exactly, you only remember the faces. Henry, irritated. Victor, grinning like he wanted to see blood. And Belch… motionless. Still as a pillar, observing the scene expressionlessly.

He was the one who stopped Henry. Not for you, not out of empathy. He did it for some reason no one understood—not even Henry, who stared at him as if his own dog had growled at him

From that night on, things changed without you even noticing.

You started hearing that engine getting closer and closer to your house, as if it were passing by your street by chance. You saw him leaning against the car after school, smoking without really looking at anyone… except when you walked through the driveway.

Sometimes you found strange objects in your locker: a screw, a lighter, an old gas receipt. They all had something in common: they were things that came from Belch's Chevy.

You weren't sure if it was a warning or a sign of recognition. Maybe both.

One cloudy afternoon, the sky was so gray it looked like it was about to fall. You left class late, the hallway empty, the strong wind blowing through the broken windows of the west wing. You walked toward the exit and there he was. Alone. Without Henry, without Victor. Leaning against the door of the Chevy, as if he'd been waiting for you for hours.

He didn't smile. Belch never smiled much, he just raised his gaze, heavy and slow, as if he were assessing you.

You—he said, with that hoarse voice that sounded bigger than him. He gestured toward the passenger seat, a small gesture, but an order, after all.

You didn't know why you obeyed. Maybe out of fear. Maybe because his presence had that kind of gravity that compelled obedience. Or perhaps because, despite everything, there was something in his eyes that didn't seem to want to hurt you. Or not at that moment when you got in.

The Chevy smelled of gasoline, cigarettes, hot metal. Belch started the engine without saying a word. He drove the way he spoke: little, hard, direct. He didn't look at you until we reached the abandoned clearing on the outskirts of Derry.

The engine roared for a second before dying. Silence fell like a blow.

It was then that he finally spoke, turning his face slightly toward you, as if he were struggling to decide whether to warn you or reprimand you.

"You shouldn't be alone," he murmured, not gently, with no intention of comforting you. "Henry hates you. Vic does too." He looked you up and down, slowly, as if he were gauging your place in his world

"I'm not going to let them screw you over... unless you give me a reason."