Derry, Maine — 1962

After endless begging, awkward phone calls between your parents and his, forced good impressions, and promises nobody fully intended to keep… it finally happened.

FINALLY, THEODORE URIS WAS ALLOWED TO HAVE A SLEEPOVER AT YOUR HOUSE.

You didn’t know exactly how or when his parents had given in. It just… happened. Like the rules of the world shifted for one night. And you were going to make the most of it.

Teddy was stretched out on your bed, half-sunk into the blankets, with a huge pizza box sitting between the two of you. Your mom had bought it “to share,” extra ham included—because knowing Teddy for this long meant knowing his tastes without him having to say them out loud.

He looked sleepy. Really sleepy.

Still, he was trying to read a comic in the dark, holding it just close enough to his face to somehow make it work. You had no idea how he could see anything at all.

Phil claimed it was some kind of Jewish superpower. You just thought Teddy was weird.

You aimed your flashlight straight at his eyes.

— “Ow! Hey—be careful, idiot!”

He whined in that familiar annoyed tone, more tired than actually angry, before tossing the crust of a pizza slice at you from the nightstand. It missed, but not by much.

“What’s wrong with you?” he muttered, rubbing one eye. “I was at the best part.”