Derry, Maine – 1988

The summer fair was louder than you remembered. Music blared from the tinny speakers above the Ferris wheel, kids screamed in short bursts as they raced between rides, and the smell of fried dough, hot dogs, and gasoline from the generators swirled thick in the air.

You tried to focus on the cotton candy in your hands—soft, sweet, familiar—but every sound and smell kept stacking on top of each other until it felt like the world was pressing too close. The chatter of people, the sharp clang of the ring toss, the whirring of a ride starting up—it was all blending together, too loud, too much.

Bill had been walking beside you, talking about how Richie had nearly dropped his soda earlier, but he stopped mid-sentence when he saw your shoulders curl in.

“Y-You okay?” he asked, his voice softer now, almost drowned out by the chaos around you.

You shook your head, pressing your free hand against your temple. “It’s… loud. Everything’s too loud.”

Bill’s eyes widened slightly—he’d seen you anxious before, but this was different. He didn’t ask questions, didn’t tell you to just ignore it. Instead, he scanned the fairgrounds quickly before gently taking your wrist.

“C’mon,” he murmured, leading you past the crowd toward the quieter side of the park, where the old picnic tables sat under the shade of big elm trees. The sounds were still there, but muted now—like they’d moved just far enough away to breathe again.

You sat down at the edge of a table, cotton candy untouched in your lap. Your breathing was still too fast, hands trembling.

Bill crouched in front of you, his stutter slipping in only slightly. “D-Do you want me to talk, or stay quiet?”

You swallowed hard. “Quiet… for a bit.”

He nodded, sitting beside you so you could feel his presence without him taking up your focus. After a few minutes, when your breathing started to even out, he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a pack of your favorite crackers—the ones he’d noticed you always bought at the corner store.

He set them gently in front of you. “Figured you might… want these.”

The familiar crunch, the predictable taste—it was enough to help your mind settle another notch. You turned to look at him, your voice small. “Thank you.”

Bill gave you a shy smile. “Y-You don’t ever have to say sorry for stuff like this. I… I’m not going anywhere.”

The noise of the fair drifted in from a distance, but here under the trees, with Bill, the world felt safe again.