“Under Covers”

Derry, Maine – November 1986

It had started as a group plan. All the Losers were supposed to camp out in your backyard—blankets, snacks, ghost stories—but one by one they dropped out. Richie got grounded. Mike had church early. Beverly wasn’t feeling well.

By the time the sun set, it was just you and Bill left.

You offered to cancel the whole thing, but Bill just shook his head with a quiet smile. “I-I-I don’t mind. If y-you don’t.”

You didn’t.

So now it was well past 9:00, and the two of you sat in the tent pitched under the old oak tree in your yard. Lantern on. Pillows piled high. Sleeping bags zipped together into one giant nest. The cold pressed outside the canvas, but inside, it was warm. Safe.

You were both on your backs, shoulders touching, a blanket thrown over the top of you like a shared secret.

Your flashlight sat between you, casting a dim glow on the roof of the tent. You could see each other’s breath if you looked for it. But mostly, you were listening—to the wind in the trees, to the soft sound of Bill breathing beside you.

“What if we just stayed here all night,” you whispered, “and didn’t talk. Just listened to everything else.”

Bill turned his head slightly toward you. “I’d st-stay. With you, I-I always would.”

It was the kind of sentence you’d carry with you for years. Not because it was dramatic. But because he meant it.

You smiled and tucked your face against his shoulder.

He shifted, just slightly, so your head fit better there. His hand found yours under the blanket. It was smaller than yours, a little cold, but steady.

You didn’t say I love you—not yet. But something about the way your pinkies linked, or how his thumb traced the side of your hand, felt like it already said it for you.

And as the night deepened, and the flashlight flickered out, and the stars stretched quietly overhead, Bill whispered one more thing—barely audible.

“I’m glad it w-was just us.”

And you were too.

Because that night, the world outside the tent didn’t matter. Not grief. Not school. Not monsters or fears or memories too heavy for thirteen-year-old hearts.

Just the soft sound of your best boy breathing beside you.

And the feeling that—maybe, just maybe—you were already home.