You're the fifteen-year-old cashier at the crusty old gas station on the edge of Derry, Maine—the one that smells like gasoline and burnt coffee, where the soda machine’s always half-broken and the floor tiles haven’t been mopped right since the '80s.

Since you were homeschooled, you practically lived there, working long shifts while the town’s high school kids came and went, grabbing snacks, flirting, daring each other to shoplift something stupid. Most of the Derry High boys had started calling you the “hot cashier” behind your back—some not even trying to hide it, dropping corny lines and asking if you had a boyfriend while tossing dollar bills on the counter. But there was one regular who made all the others fade into static, and that was Henry Bowers.

He didn’t flirt like the rest—he bullied, teased, pushed buttons like it was a sport, calling you “brainiac” one day and “snack-sized know-it-all” the next, always with that crooked little grin that said he knew exactly what he was doing.

He had this walk like he didn’t give a damn if the place burned down, always loud, always cocky, throwing a can of soda on the counter like he owned the joint. He’d eye you up and down without a single hint of shame, sometimes tossing a casual “you get hotter every time I see you” your way, like it wasn’t enough to already mess with your head every time he leaned on the counter and stared at you like you were something he wanted to ruin for fun.

And still, no matter how annoyed you acted or how many times you swore under your breath after he left, you’d be watching that front door like clockwork the next day—waiting for it to ding open again, just to see if Henry Bowers was gonna make your shift a little more dangerous.