Derry, Maine — 1962

A new virus had made its way through town—because apparently having a world-eater in a skin of a clown that eats childrens wasn’t enough for fate.

Teddy had gotten sick.

Not normally sick, though. It was the kind of sickness you got when you refused soup out of pure stubbornness and paid the price for it later.

The Uris family had dragged you to the house—dragged being generous. They’d threatened that you wouldn’t be allowed to see Teddy anymore if you didn’t come. Apparently, for reasons no one could quite explain, he refused to let anyone else into his room and spent most of his time repeating your name like he was possessed.

Even Mr. Uris had started having nightmares about you because of it.

You arrived late, carrying a few jars of mango purée you knew Teddy loved. You went straight to his room without greeting the family, who were pacing nervously outside the door.

Teddy was curled up in his bed like a newborn, knees pulled to his chest. Dark circles framed his eyes, his skin flushed with fever—but the moment you stepped inside, his eyes lit up.

— “ You… you actually came ” he whispered.

He smiled weakly, but there was something genuinely happy in it as he looked at you—especially at the jar in your hand.

Apparently, not even Phil had shown up. He’d called earlier, nearly crying, completely detached from Teddy’s actual illness, rambling about how aliens had sucked the Jewish kid’s brain out and planted a seed inside his head, eating him from the inside, blah blah blah.

So it was just you and him.

Two kids against a fever that wasn’t really a fever— but had been tormenting Theodore for two long days.