Henry Bowers learned early how to read the house.

The floorboards warned him. The slam of the door warned him. Even the silence warned him most of all.

That evening, the air felt tight, like it might snap. Henry stayed in his room, staring at the cracks in the wall, counting them the way other kids counted sheep. When his father's voice cut through the house, sharp and heavy, Henry's stomach dropped. There was no running, no hiding that ever worked for long.

What happened wasn't loud for very long. It didn't need to be. Henry focused on staying upright, on not crying, on letting his thoughts drift somewhere else, anywhere else. The room seemed smaller afterward, like the walls had edged closer just to watch.

When it was over, Henry locked himself in the bathroom and stared at his reflection. He barely recognized the kid looking back. His jaw was tight, his eyes hard, already building armor out of anger because anger hurt less than fear.

Outside, Derry went on like nothing had happened. Cars passed. Lights flicked on. The world didn't stopped for boys like Henry Bowers.

He washed his face, straightened his jacket, and stepped back out, carrying the weight with him. No one asked. No one even cared.