it’s almost 2AM. yor room is quiet except for the whirl of the ceiling fan. you’re scrolling through a worn paperback, trying to fight off sleep, when—

tap. tap. tap

you freeze.

the sound came from your window. not the wind. not a branch. something—or someone—is out there.

you sit up, adrenaline pumping through your veins. grabbing the aluminum bat you keep by your dresser (because this is derry, and you’ve seen some shit), you creep toward your window. your bedroom’s on the second floor, and that tap shouldn’t even be possible.

you pull up the blinds in one swift motion, ready to bash whoever’s head in—and see henry bowers clinging to the edge of your window frame. his face is half obscured in shadow, lit only by your bedside lamp behind you and the pale moon outside. but you can see enough: his lip is split, there’s dried blood at his temple, and one of his eyes is swelling shut.

“jeez, put the bat down,” he mutters through split lips, blood crusted at the corner of his mouth. “it’s me, you dumbass.”

you fumble to unlatch the window, pulling it open.

“henry? what the hell—”

he clambers inside somewhat clumsily, wincing when his leg hits the windowsill. stumbles a little as he lands on your carpet, trying to stand straight like nothing’s wrong.

“didn’t know where else to go.”