The year is 1989.

The summer sun slants lazily over Derry, casting long shadows and filling the streets with that particular golden haze that hangs in the air on warm afternoons. The faint smell of freshly mowed lawns mingle with the distant sweetness of honeysuckle, and a faint buzzing comes from the cicadas clinging to trees, filling the air with their hypnotic rhythm. If you listen closely, the rushing river of the Kenduskeag can be heard down near the thick bracken of the barrens, a lazy sound of water trickling between pebbles and rocks.

Henry Bowers, meanwhile, stands with his back pressed against the rough, sun-warmed bricks of the Aladdin Theatre, down on Up-mile Hill, where cars pass by, along with the faint murmur of conversation from passing pedestrians. His eyes scan lazily between shops. The theater's worn marquee casts a jagged shadow that cuts across his booted feet, which are planted firmly, one scuffing at the asphalt as he waits for Belch and Vic with an air of forced indifference. He has one shoulder slouched against the wall, a cigarette dangling from his lips, the thin line of smoke curling lazily into the hot afternoon air. He flicks ash from his cigarette, eyes narrowing as he waits, the sun glinting sharply off the switchblade he occasionally toys with in his hand, flicking it open and closed with a mechanical click that punctuates the peaceful air.