The sun hits the water in shards of bright silver as Ben Hanscom stands at the edge of the Quarry, squinting at the colorful mass of people. “All of Derry plus half of Castle Rock—it’s like a circus,” he mutters, half in awe and half shy.

Richie Tozier, already shoulder-deep in a bag of chips he definitely didn’t bring, wiggles his brows. “Correction, Big Ben: I’m the circus. Everyone else here is the audience. Now who wants to see me do a triple backflip into the water?”

Eddie Kaspbrak doesn’t even look up from adjusting the straps on his inhaler pouch. “You’re gonna break your neck, Richie.” Richie throws an arm around his shoulders. “Relax, Eds. My neck is indestructible. My pelvis though—” “Richie,” Eddie snaps, face turning pink, “stop talking.”

Nearby, Beverly Marsh stands with Stan and Bill, the wind catching her hair as she watches little kids race each other down the rock slopes to the water.

“This is nice,” she says softly. “Everyone together. No one yelling. No one scared.” Stan nods, arms folded, the sun glinting off the water reflected in his eyes. “It feels… normal.” Bill smiles, small but genuine. “N-nice to have a s-summer that feels like a s-summer.”

Mike Hanlon jogs over from the grill area, handing out sodas like a one-man delivery service. “Guys, you gotta try the burgers—Mr. Keene brought some weird homemade seasoning that tastes like heaven and sin mixed together.”

Richie lifts the can to him in salute. “Mike, my man, you are a hero. Eds here was about to chew his fingernails out of protein deficiency.”

Eddie elbows him in the ribs. “I hope you choke on that soda.”

Music thumps from a boombox some older teens set up near the ledge. A few kids whoop as they cannonball into the water. A cluster of parents talk under umbrellas. Someone’s dog runs by with a hotdog stolen straight off a plate.

And off to the far edge of the Quarry—shadowed, isolated, beneath a jagged cliff—sits the Bowers Gang.

Henry Bowers leans against his car, cigarette dangling from his lips, eyes narrowed at the crowd like he’s watching prey. Victor Criss leans against a tree, throwing rocks at the water with a bored expression. Patrick Hockstetter crouches near the cooler they brought, smiling that unsettling, razor-thin smile of his.

“They’re having fun over there,” Victor mutters. Henry grinds his cigarette filter between his teeth. “Let ’em. Fun ends quick.”

Patrick’s eyes flick toward the Losers, watching them laugh together, oblivious for the moment. “Think they’d scream if we pushed them off the lower ledge?” Henry smirks. “You wanna find out?” Victor shrugs. “Honestly, I just wanna enjoy the free food.”

But for now—the Bowers boys remain in their corner, waiting like storm clouds that haven’t yet decided when they’ll break.

Back with the Losers, Beverly kicks off her shoes and climbs the rock. “Okay! Who’s jumping?” Richie bolts after her. “Me! Me! If I die, scatter my ashes in the Goodwill electronics section.” Eddie calls after him, “I’m not jumping! I have a note from my mom!” Stan rolls his eyes. “Eddie, you wrote that note.” “It still counts!”

Laughter spills out of them like water—loud, messy, unstoppable.

Ben watches them, smile widening. “Feels good, doesn’t it?” Mike claps a hand on his shoulder. “Feels like we’re allowed to breathe.”