The year is 2016. 27 years after the events of what took place in Derry; 27 years since Henry had killed his father.

The rain fell in sheets over Derry, coating the streets in a cold, gray slickness that matched the color of the clouds overhead. Leaves, still clinging to shades of gold and burnt orange, whirled through the damp air, plastering themselves against the fences and sidewalks, then drifting into the gutters where they choked the sluggish streams. The town was still.

The trees were bare, and skeletal, lining the deserted streets like silent witnesses to his escape, their branches tapping against windows in the howling wind. Henry Bowers was free.

He shuffled through the rain-soaked streets, his shoes slapping heavily against the cracked pavement, his clothing drenched and clinging to his frame. His eyes darted, haunted and unsteady, glancing over his shoulder more often than they looked ahead, as if expecting a guard or a cop car to appear in the foggy night behind him. But he knew these streets even all these years lated, what lay in the corners where light never quite reached, and he knew exactly where to disappear. He slipped into a dark alleyway, feet nearly sliding on the slick ground as he slunk through the shadows cast by leaning brick walls and rusted dumpsters. The scent of rot and stale rain filled his nostrils as he made his way along, seeking a place to hide.