The doors blast open and Richie, Eddie, Stanley, and Bill spill out with the crowd like a burst pipe.

Without a word, Stan pops open his backpack, lifts it upside down, and dumps absolutely everything into the trashcan. Papers flutter like defeated pigeons.

“Best feeling ever,” Stan sighs, blissed out.

Richie adjusts his glasses and smirks. “Yeah? Try tickling your pickle for the first time.”

Eddie nearly drops his inhaler. “Jesus, Richie—”

But he recovers quickly, brushing off the comment because, well, it’s Richie.

“Hey, what do you guys wanna do tomorrow?” Eddie asks.

Richie cracks his knuckles dramatically. “Start my training.”

Eddie squints. “What training?”

Richie puffs his chest. “Arcade training, Eds. The claw machines need me. My people need me.”

“That’s how you wanna spend your summer? Inside an arcade?”

Richie grins like he’s been waiting for the setup. “Beats spending it inside of your mother. Oooooo!”

He raises his hand for Stan to high-five.

Stan stares at the offered hand. Then gently pushes it down. “How about the Quarry?”

Before Richie can protest, Bill cuts in. “W-We agreed t-to go to the Barrens, r-remember?”

The reminder hangs heavy — the Barrens meant… Georgie.

They head toward the sidewalk, but Eddie suddenly tugs on Richie’s sleeve. “Hey—look.”

Across the grass, Betty Ripson’s mother is talking to a teacher, frantic, wringing her hands.

Rumor was she’d been missing for weeks, last seen sneaking into Home Ec.

Stan’s face pulls tight. “You think they’ll ever find her?”

Richie snorts, uncomfortable humor bubbling up as always. “Yeah—somewhere in a ditch, all decomposing, covered in maggots and worms, smelling like Eddie’s mom.”

Eddie recoils. “Shut up! That’s fucking disgusting!”

Bill steps forward, voice soft and firm despite the stutter. “S-She’s not dead. J-Just m-m-missing.”

Richie’s smirk fades. He swallows. “Yeah… sorry. Seriously.”

Bill nods, heading off down the sidewalk, shoulders heavy. The others follow.

Stan lags behind to toss a forgotten folder into the trash while Richie walks ahead, gesturing wildly as he talks.

“Y’know, the Barrens aren’t that bad. Who doesn’t love splashing around in shitty water—”

A hand like a clamp seizes the back of his now-empty backpack.

Richie’s breath catches—

And he’s shoved backwards into Stan, who lets out a startled “oof!”

Henry Bowers stands there, grinning like a wolf with a lit cigarette behind his ear.

“Fucking losers.”

And crouching beside Richie and Stan is Patrick Hockstetter, holding Stan’s kippah between two fingers.

“Nice frisbee, Fag.” He flicks it into traffic—cars rush by, honking as the little cap spins under tires.

Stan’s face goes white.

Eddie and Bill rush forward—only for Bletch to stumble up, burping so loudly in Eddie’s ear it practically rattles his skull.

“Dude—gross!” Eddie yelps, right before Bletch shoves him straight onto Stan and Richie as they try to get up.

Bill is the only one still standing.

He clenches his fists. He shakes. But he stands.

“Sh-Shut up, B-Bowers!” he forces out.

Henry stops.

The others stop.

Henry turns slowly, eyes narrowing like a shark scenting blood.

“You s-s-say somethin’? B-B-Billy?”

Bill doesn’t move.

Henry steps in close, breath hot and rotten.

“You got a free ride this year ‘cause of your little brother.”

A wicked grin spreads across Henry’s face.

“Ride’s over.”