Chapter 8

Bill raised a hand to quiet Maggie and Gary. “The remote control? How would he have it in 2011?”

“He obviously had it in 2019. Who else dropped it in the gutter for me to find?”

“Shut up!” he said as Maggie and Gary tried to talk over him. “What about the two girls ahead of you on the sidewalk? Wouldn’t one of them have seen it and picked it up?”

“Those two wouldn’t have noticed a thousand-pound gorilla sitting in the gutter,” Camilla said caustically. “They were totally wrapped up in their conversation.”

“About boys,” Maggie quipped, grinning.

Camilla returned a tight grin. “I wish one of them had. I wouldn’t be here right now.” She laughed. “I think my presence here is preordained, though.” She sighed.

Rising from the couch, Bill stretched and gazed desultorily at Camilla. “Not that I believe a word of this, but if I did, what’s next?”

Good question, Camilla thought, feeling pretty desultory herself. “I need the remote. Even if the steps exist here in 1963, they’d only take me to 2011 in Right-Hand World, and that’s not where I want to go. I want to go home. And if those steps do exist, I need to find them as soon as possible, because it’s the only way to know if your older self could be here in 1963, and possibly be in Dallas. Barring finding the remote control, it’s also the only proof that I’m telling the truth. Something needs to convince you that I’m not lying, Bill. Or crazy,” she added.

Gary croaked: “We’re going to Lisbon Falls?”

“I am,” Camilla said. “You don’t need to go, if you don’t want to.”

Bill objected forcefully: “You can’t go there alone! How would you even get there?”

“My feet, if I have to.” She arose from the chair and swung her gaze from one to the other of her companions. “Does anyone know if President Kennedy is gonna be in Dallas in two weeks?” All three shook their heads.

“Think maybe your parents might know?”

Gary cocked an eyebrow and said, “Maybe.” He headed for the stairs, starting to holler up his question before reaching the door. Camilla winced and turned to Maggie, who shook her head.

“My father would just tell me to come home if I called. I’m surprised mom hasn’t called yet, wondering where I am.” She glanced at the clock above the mantle, which read 9:30 PM.

It occurred to Camilla to wonder why Gary and Maggie had been in the Amazon today, so close to the end of class. Was Marshall High School that close? Not from what she remembered in the book. “Did you cut class today?” she asked.

Obviously surprised by the question, Maggie shook her head. “Half-day. Teacher’s meetings this afternoon and tomorrow.” She glanced at Bill.

“My parents don’t care how late I stay out on a non-school night.” No sooner had he said this, than the telephone rang, downstairs and upstairs, a jarring, teeth-grinding sound in the small room.

Maggie muttered, “There you go,” standing up.

“We’ll walk you home,” Bill said. “Don’t worry.”

“Not Camilla. She doesn’t have any shoes.”

Bill glanced down at Camilla’s sock-clad feet and snorted. “So much for hot-footing it over to Lisbon Falls,” he quipped.

“That’s not where I’m going,” she shot back, turning to Gary, whose mom had just responded in the negative to knowing if Kennedy would visit Dallas on the 22nd.

“Let me get the phone,” she called down, “and then I’ll ask your dad.”

“Like he’d know,” Gary muttered. He shrugged; hands stuffed in his pockets.

As expected, it was Mrs. Trent on the line, checking on Maggie’s whereabouts. Gary yelled up that he and Bill would walk her home in a minute or two. Maggie scowled, looking as though she too might stuff her hands in her jean’s pockets. Glancing at the imitation white Keds on Maggie’s feet, Camilla wondered what she’d do about shoes. Stupid as it sounded, this could prove a real problem.

“Would you mind calling your parents and asking?” Camilla asked.

Bill scowled, but headed for the phone, nonetheless. As he snatched up the handset, and began to dial his home number, Camilla had the transient thought of spiriting the valuable relic back to the future when she returned, and then the comical thought of the phone stuffed into her back pocket. How did pre-21st Century inhabitants’ function without cell phones? Her generation had grown up with them; they were as ubiquitous and requisite as electricity and running water.

To Gary’s clear expectation, Mrs. Kensington called downstairs that Mr. Kensington had no idea if President Kennedy planned a visit to Dallas in the coming weeks, or to anywhere else, campaign related, or not. Nor did he care, Gary added after thanking his mom for her troubles. “He’s a freaking republican. He voted for Nixon in 1960. He hates Kennedy with a bloody passion.”

“The election was in 1959,” Bill corrected irritably. “How he can call himself a New Englander, I don’t know. Hey, Mom...”

While he related the Kennedy question to his mother, Camilla put a different question to Gary: “Do you have any shoes I can wear? Maybe an old pair of sneakers of your mom’s?” She could imagine him skulking about upstairs on the 3rd floor, invading his mom’s closet. To her surprise, he smirked, and headed toward the storage closet door.

“My mother throws away nothing! Goodwill could stock an entire department from what she has stored away in here.” Chuckling, he opened the door, flipped the light-switch and invited inspection with a wave of the hand. His atrocious French accent made her grin. “After you, Mademoiselle Fifi!”

“You goober. You’d make Ed Sullivan find a closet to go hide in.”

He raised an eyebrow, impressed, she imagined, that she knew who that was.

“I read his name in IT and Googled it. He was also mentioned in 11/22/63.” She peered into the closet. “Eddie--who you know as Dennis--secretly told anyone handy that you were no Edgar Bergen, Gary.”

“Hey!” Gary objected, wounded. “I’m not that bad.”

“Oh, yes you are,” Maggie chirped cheerfully, performing her mock-gag, again. Camilla grinned.

What might have proved an arduous task, turned out to be dead simple. Mrs. Kensington had neatly labeled the contents of each box in black magic marker—it made her think of Mr. Kensington’s pegboard. To her relief, the third carton down bore the lettering: ‘sweaters’, ‘tops’, ‘clam-diggers’, and lastly, ‘shoes’, all identified as packed away in the years 1959 through 1962.

“Clam-diggers?” Gary questioned.

Camilla bent and tapped just below her right knee. “We call ‘em Capri’s in 2019. Help me get the box out, okay?”

While Gary repositioned the two boxes on top, Bill came to the doorway and announced that he’d also struck out with his parents. “You’d think presidential movements would generate more awareness in the general populace, wouldn’t ya? But it’s heading into an election year, so everyone turns a blind eye, I guess. Any luck with the shoes?”The smirk in his voice rankled Camilla, but she refused to rise to the bait.

The carton was an old 8-1/2” x 11” paper box, with a removable lid. She lifted off the lid without issue, and right on top, wrapped in Glad Wrap for protection against moths, nestled a pair of black, low top ladies Chucks. She knew without looking that they were her size. “Perfect!” she exclaimed, holding them out for Gary’s approval.

“Milady deserves the finest footwear the kingdom doth offer. Had I a wand, I would surely convert them into the finest crystal for your pleasure. Behold, your Prince Charming awaits.” She giggled and rolled her eyes as he bowed with a sweep of the hand.

“You’re such a dork, Gary. Bill and Maggie are right about that.”

Grinning ear to ear, Gary turned back and replaced the lid on the open carton and grabbed the nearer set-aside box. “Wait,” she said, touching his elbow.

The next box down was labeled Fall & Winter Outerwear. Nodding, he sat aside the printer-paper carton, dug a penknife from his jeans pocket and he slit the carton sealing tape down the middle. Inside lay a moderately heavy, cream-colored coat in a clear plastic garment bag. Mrs. Kensington had obligingly included a pair of matching leather gloves, and a knit cap. Unlikely as it seemed, the coordinated items might be something she’d find on Poshmark, or Etsy; awesomely retro. “Can I have these too?” she asked, grinning.

“Anything for milady. Soothe I find thouest’s coach in one of yon stacks. Make only the gesture, milady and I’ll—”

“Gary...” Bill said threateningly. “Stop encouraging him,” he grunted at Camilla. “It’s late. We need to get Maggie home before she gets into trouble.”

“I don’t want to go home!” Maggie objected stridently. “What are you gonna do with Camilla tonight?”

Bill shrugged. “That hasn’t been decided yet. We’ll figure something out.”

Irritated but keeping her peace, Camilla thanked Gary and returned to the chair and sat down. She peeled open the Glad Wrap and examined the Chuck Taylor’s, confirming they were, in fact, her size. She slipped them on and tied the laces as Gary finished reassembling the stacked boxes, turned out the light, and closed the closet door.

“I don’t want to go home,” Maggie repeated, crossing her arms sulkily.

“You have to. Your dad’ll be after our scalps if we don’t have you home by 11 o’clock.” He glanced at the clock, which now read 9:45 PM. “It’s a half-hour walk.” He glanced around. “You didn’t ride your bike?”

“We went right from school.”

Normally, she explained, she took the bus to and from school, jumping onto her bike to meet up with one or more of the guys once she got home and checked in with her mom. Camilla asked at what age you could legally drive in 1963.

“Sixteen,” Bill grunted.

“You have a driver’s license?” she asked.

He nodded, eyeing her skeptically.

“Gary? Maggie?”

Neither had even a learner’s permit it turned out.

“Mom won’t let me drive until I’m eighteen,” Maggie complained. Gary hadn’t a hope of getting a car, and since neither parent would allow him to drive the ‘59 Plymouth parked at the curb even if he did have a license, why bother? It was good that Bill had a license, anyway.

“We should go,” she said, slipping on the borrowed coat and buttoning it halfway up.

Bill indicated the telephone with a nod, and grumbling angrily, Maggie crossed to the table and snatched up the handset. “This isn’t fair,” she seethed, whirling the dial with her fingertip. “Camilla should stay with me tonight.”

“Explain that to your dad,” Bill said. “A sleepover with the new girl in school?”

Lips pinched tight; Maggie glared at him and dialed the second digit of her number. “You taking her home with you, Bill? That’ll go over good.”

“She’s staying here!” Gary protested, vehemently. “Aren’t you, Camilla?” Despite his attempted nonchalance, he blushed at the suggestion and avoided Camilla’s eyes.

Slipping the knit cap onto her head, Camilla responded: “I don’t know where I’m staying, tonight. It’s not up to you to decide where I stay, anyway. Whether you accompany me or not, I’m going back to the clubhouse and look for the remote control. I have to know if it’s here or not.” She test-fit the snug leather gloves on her slender hands as all three Misfits reacted violently to her plan.

“You can’t go there alone!”

“At night? Are you crazy?”

“Absolutely not!” Bill commanded hotly. “You try to go down there without us and—”

“And you’ll what?” Camilla cut in. “Tie me to a tree? Take away my shoes and socks? Lock me in your cellar?” She snapped the wrist of her right-hand glove, circled with elastic around the inside. “We can make a quick detour on the way to Maggie’s. It wouldn’t take more than ten minutes to reach the clearing, and even less to search it. We’ll need flashlights, though,” she said, unhappy at the admission. Without a flashlight, she’d be thwarted until morning.

“Forget it,” Bill said, moving to block the basement door. “You’re staying with Gary tonight. Try to get past me, and I’ll report you as a runaway.”

Camilla dropped her hands to her sides. “You gotta walk Maggie home. Soon as you’re out that door...” She made a whooshing sound and thrust out her hand. “I’m gone. Unless you make Gary stay with me, in which case I’ll talk him into accompanying me as soon as you’re gone.”

Gary’s objection was instantaneous, though meaningless. All knew that he would do as she asked, no matter how dangerous or knot headed the request. He couldn’t say no to a pretty girl—any girl, for that matter.

Bill set his jaw and took two steps forward. Maggie abandoned the phone and hurried over to stand between them again. “Wait!” she hissed. “If we leave right now, we can hit the clubhouse on the way. We can get there and back in twenty-five minutes. We can say we stopped on the way and talked to Officer Randall if we’re late. Dad can’t say anything about talking to a cop on the way home.”

“And when he asks Officer Randall the next time, he sees him?” Bill grinned. “That’ll go over good,” he taunted.

Maggie expression said that she would not be swayed. “We’re wasting time. I’m calling home, and then we’re leaving.” Grabbing Gary by the arm, she dragged him over to take her place between Bill and Camilla—

“Oh, for God’s Sakes!” Bill complained loudly.

--and then hurried to the phone to place her call home. Dialing, she caught Camilla’s eye, and gave her a thumb-up. “We girls gotta stick together.”

Camilla grinned and nodded back.

“This is a stupid idea,” Bill said between clenched teeth. “The Amazon is no place to be at night. We should wait until morning.”

“I thought the danger was over now,” Camilla responded.

Bill’s features hardened. “Diabolical creatures aren’t the only danger in a place like that. In some ways, it’s more dangerous down there now, than it was in 1958. Chief Borton ran off a bunch of hobos just a month ago. They probably set up a new camp somewhere else within days. These two took their chances going down there today. What’s up with you, anyway, dude? You know better than that, taking Maggie down there with you.”

Banging down the phone, Maggie responded angrily: “I’m not eleven years old, Bill! I don’t need your permission to go places.” She strode to where her jacket lay over the couch back and snatched it up. Chin high and chest outthrust, she yanked it on and zipped it up, jamming her hands into the pockets. In that moment, Camilla understood that some aspect of what had occurred between them in the novel had also occurred in real life ... and was never resolved to either’s satisfaction. Neither liked, nor wanted to be just friends.

“You have flashlights down here?” he growled at Gary.

“In the back room, yeah.”

“Go get ‘em--as many as you can. The last thing I want is to be down in the Amazon without effing light.”

Gary scurried off in search of flashlights, while Bill stomped to where his black leather coat and fedora hung from a line of pegs beside the door. He donned the coat and jammed the hat on his head, refusing to look at either Maggie or Camilla, who wondered distractedly if he and Maggie had ever done more than kiss. She also wondered why the question made her shoulders hunch, the way that thinking about Jessica and Rob Pence did. Unlike Rob, she had no interest in Bill, so why should she care? She didn’t, did she? Have an interest in Bill? Of course not, she told herself hotly. He’s your damned cousin, Camilla!

She’d struck out twice on the Kennedy whereabouts question. With time so tight, she had no option but to let it go until morning. Which begged the question: where would she sleep tonight? She thought Maggie’s suggestion best, that she spend the night bedded down with her, but what possible explanation could they conjure up that would pass muster with her parents? Inventing a reason would be a challenging endeavor even in 2019. All indications pointed at her hiding out in Gary’s basement tonight, whether she liked it or not.

Gary returned with three, ancient looking flashlights. She noted with some amusement that all three bore the Eveready logo, the 60s version of it, anyway, on the cylinders. The labels were riveted to the steel bodies just below the on/off switches. The flashlight Gary offered Bill was painted black; the other two were shiny chrome. Camilla chose not to object when Gary stuck the end of one flashlight into his back pocket and handed the third to Maggie.

“Gotta run upstairs for my coat,” he said. “Be right back.”

While Gary bounded up the stairs two at a time, Bill tested his flashlight, and instructed Maggie to do likewise. Both appeared to function properly, the beams as bright as could be expected in the lighted room. Still, Bill shook his head as he depressed the thumb-switch and stuck the flashlight in his coat pocket.

“I’m gonna check the back room for extra batteries. I don’t like this business at all.” The expression on Maggie’s face said she concurred.

The truth was, Camilla forced herself not to consider the dangers involved in descending into the wild tangle of bushes and trees at night. If it weren’t for the overriding importance of locating and securing the remote control before somebody else did, she wouldn’t even consider the idea. She didn’t know which possibility frightened her more: that the remote hadn’t accompanied her into the past, or that someone else had found it already.

“It’ll be fine,” Maggie said, gazing after Bill. “There’s four of us, after all. No one’s gonna bother four of us down there.” She shifted foot to foot, the flashlight clenched in both hands. “I wish we had a gun, is all. A gun would a good thing to have in the Amazon at night. Not that we’ll need it, of course!” she added, realizing what she’d said. Fear had ratcheted up her breathing and drained the blood from her face.

“Have you ever been in the Amazon at night?” Camilla asked.

Maggie reacted as though goosed. “God, are you kidding me? I hate the place in the daytime. No one goes down there after dark. Bill’s right about that.”

Camilla thought: And yet you chose this afternoon to venture into the Amazon for the first time in years. Being there in the clearing was no coincidence; it was every bit as preordained as my spotting the remote control in the gutter and bending down to pick it up.

Bill returned, a pair of Duracell D-Cell batteries in his hand. “This is it,” he muttered angrily. Unscrewing the flashlight’s base, he removed the two batteries inside, and replaced them with the pair in his hand. When tested, the light burned bright as before. Looking no less happy about it, he dropped the spares into his coat pocket and replaced the flashlight in the pocket opposite. “We don’t use them until we get to the overlook, and then only one at a time,” he said.

Gary returned, just as noisy on the stairs as ever. “Let’s go!” he said breathlessly, pointing at the basement door. Camilla jumped as he shouted, “We’re gone!” back over his shoulder, wondering grumpily why he hadn’t said his goodbyes upstairs. She suspected it was just Gary being Gary.

As could be expected on a November evening, the temperature had dropped sharply in the hours since sunset. Camilla exhaled and watched her breath condense into a fine white mist. She was immediately grateful for the knit cap and leather gloves, and Gary’s thick jeans and flannel shirt. Though lighter than she’d wish, worn in conjunction with the flannel shirt and two t-shirts, Mrs. Kensington’s coat kept the cold at bay.

“The shoes fit, okay?” Gary asked.

Camilla gave him a thumbs up.

“You don’t smoke do you?” he queried, eyeing her misty breath.

“Yuck, no. Do you?”

Gary shrugged. “Once in a while, yeah. Wish I had one right now.”

Unlike Camilla, neither he nor poor Maggie had gloves and a warm hat. Bill wore the fedora pulled down to his ears, but he walked hunch-shouldered like the others, hands jammed in his coat pockets. From Camilla’s experience, leather coats offered minimal protection against the cold, and theirs weren’t even lined.

“How much does a pack of cigarettes cost, now?” she questioned. She wasn’t ready for the answer, and she laughed, stunned. Gary eyed her quizzically.

“How much do they cost in 2019?” He wasn’t ready for her answer, either. “No way! Eight dollars a pack? What do they come wrapped in: gold foil?” He was even more aghast when she revealed the price of gold in 2019.

For the next ten minutes, with Bill leading the way, and ignoring the conversation raging behind him, Camilla regaled Maggie and Gary with advances in price and technology between 1963 and 2019. Neither teen could wrap their head around the concept of watching movies and TV on a device having the footprint of a cigarette pack. Knowing it was a side feature of the device left them flabbergasted, as did knowing her cell phone was barely a quarter-inch thick.

“And the battery lasts how long?” Gary blurted. “Twelve hours?”

“Watching movies or YouTube videos runs it down a lot faster. You have to leave it plugged in, doing that.” She laughed. “I hate to say this, guys, but kids our age spend way too much time on mobile devices. No one goes out anymore, you know. You just text your friends from home.” She laughed. “OK, that’s not entirely true, but—”

She broke off as they reached East Palmer Street. The picnic area she’d experience her mental meltdown in that afternoon lay directly opposite. Beyond that lay the Amazon, swathed in darkness as deep as the real Amazon. It surprised her, therefore, to spot twinkling lights in the distance. It was Old Cape, she realized, the low-income housing development the far side of the Amazon—the Marshall version of it, anyway. Off to the left of Old Cape, clothed also in darkness, was the Marshall version of the Kitchener Iron Works. Maybe.

“Is there an abandoned factory over there? Or was that made up too, Bill?”

He glanced at her, questioningly, and then in the direction of her pointed finger. Before he could answer, however, Gary jumped in excitedly: “The old Friedel Iron Works, yeah! You know about that?”

“In the book it blew up on Easter Sunday—”

“—1906!” Gary exclaimed. “Eighty-eight kids died in the explosion that day. Some of them never got found. Me and Bill—”

“Can it, dammit!” Bill growled. “That’s ancient history, now.” He stepped off the curb and hurried away toward the opposite side. “Let’s get a move on, people.”

Grumbling, Gary said in an aside: “We decided IT had got the eight kids that never turned up. Carried ‘em off to its lair in the drainpipes. Where you said we killed IT in 1985.” He stepped off the curb and followed Bill across the street. “You know, we never went far into those pipes--not really. Just to explore the parts where we knew we couldn’t get lost. We always had flashlights with us and marked the way with white chalk on the walls when we took a turn. When we killed IT in the abandoned house on Claussen...” He shrugged. “Never had reason to go in them after that.”

“Not that we ever wanted to,” Maggie added, shivering. “Once or twice was good enough for me.”

Camilla thought uneasily of the controversial sex scene in the novel and was glad of Maggie blissful unawareness of her alter-ego’s actions. What was Stephen thinking, writing a scene like that between 11-year-olds?

Bill had entered the picnic area and suddenly stopped up short. He thrust down a hand in warning to the others following behind; Camilla had also detected the whispered voices ahead. Moving silently across the grass flanked by Maggie and Gary, she came up behind Bill and whispered. “We’re not alone.”

At the picnic table closest the dilapidated fence, deepest in shadow, were a trio of teenagers, two boys and a girl. She remembered this wasn’t a school night.

A voice demanded loudly: “Who the hell’s that?”

Bill cursed under his breath. “Bill Denbrough. That you, Freddie?”

One of the boys pushed to his feet and waved lazily. Gary muttered, “Great. Just fucking great,” and withdrew his hands from his pockets. When an alarmed Maggie tightened reflexively beside her, Camilla anxiously questioned: “Are we okay?”

“If that’s Karen Porter with them, yeah. She’s not a nice girl, though, Camilla.”

“A bully, just like her boyfriend,” Gary whispered. “The other dude is Phillip Garrity. He’s worse than Cragen, even—a certified asshole. All three of them are seniors.”

Proceeding slowly toward the table, Bill said: “Cold enough for you guys tonight?”

Phillip Garrity laughed. “Freezing my fucking a-hole off, dude. What are you doing here, Denbrough?” He gazed at the trio accompanying Bill, his face lighting up as he distinguished two girls in the mix. Even in the darkness, Camilla could see his reaction. He stood, saying: “That’s Trent with you, okay, but who’s the other chick, Denbrough?

Camilla jammed her hands deeper into her pockets as Gary answered: “My cousin from West Virginia.”

“Yeah?” Garrity stepped over the bench seat and faced Camilla as she approached. His up and down inspection of her body set her teeth on edge.

Like Gary and Bill, Garrity wore a black leather jacket over a white t-shirt, and cuffed blue jeans. Unlike Gary and Bill, he radiated the menace of a true juvenile delinquent. Finishing off his wardrobe was a pair of black, shit-kicker work-boots. Camilla felts her hackles rise.

“Out a little late, aren’t you, Denbrough? Shouldn’t you honor roll kiddies be tucked into bed by now?”

Gary snorted. “I barely hold a C average, dude. Ain’t no honor roll in my future. College either,” he predicted wrongly, Camilla thought. “That you, Karen?”

Karen Porter waved a hand holding a cigarette and blew smoke toward the overhanging tree limbs. Her condensed breath evaporated in half the time it took the smoke to disperse, giving her exhalation a ghostly, tingly-nerve-endings appearance. Camilla had witnessed the same effect last winter during the two weeks Jessica had experimented with cigarettes.

“So, dude...” Garrity lit a cigarette from the tip of his dying butt and inhaled a lungful of smoke. “You escorting the Magpie home?”

Camilla sensed Maggie bristle beside her. The hostility in her expression was palpable. She wondered what had transpired between the two to trigger such a reaction. But of course, she knew.

“What grade you in, sis?” Garrity flicked the smoked butt on the ground, extinguishing the embers with the toe of his right boot.

“11th,” Camilla said tightly. This was bogus, pure bullshit; they needed to get down into the Amazon and look for that missing remote control. Every moment wasted up here with these Bozo’s was irreplaceable.

“West Virginia, huh? What part you from, doll?”

“Huntington.”

“I know where Huntington is,” Garrity said, flicking off ash with his thumbnail. He raised his right boot to plant on the bench so he could lean on his knee with his forearm. “That’s as far west as West Virginiie goes, ain’t it? You got a boyfriend in West Virginia, Camilla?”

“Yes,” she immediately lied. “We met in 8th grade. I’ve been with him ever since. His name is Thomas.”

Bill cocked his head as though in surprise, while at the same moment, Freddy bent down and muttered something to Karen. A moment later she struck a match to light the tip of his cigarette. Between them on the scarred tabletop, illuminated by the flare of the match, sat a glossy black remote control. Camilla gave a small gasp as Gary and Maggie both tightened beside her. They had noticed the remote, also. So had Bill.

“Where’d you get that?” he croaked. Camilla wanted to punch him in the back as all three at the picnic table took note of his interest.

“It was just sitting here,” Karen said, her tone teasingly innocent. She spun the remote control with her fingertip, and then reacted in alarm as the four Misfits jumped in response. She withdrew her hand and slid backwards on the bench half a dozen inches. “What’s the matter?” she said.

“Nothing,” Bill answered too quickly. He’d backed half a step into Camilla, trampling her toes with his right heel. Her instinct was to shove him forward, but instead, she slid her tight hand around to his stomach to steady herself. To her surprise, whether unconsciously or not, he clasped her hand and held it against him tightly. It was then, seemingly without provocation, that she wondered if the delinquents at the table were in fact, Henry Bowers and one of his buddies. The real Henry Bowers. If IT died in the house on Claussen Street as described, then Bowers and his friends were probably alive and kicking. An instant later she decided no, that couldn’t be right; Henry Bowers was several years older than the Misfits, not a high school senior.

“What is this thing, anyway?” Karen asked. “It beeps when you push any of the little buttons. And that’s a Mercedes-Benz symbol in the middle, there. I recognize that.” She unexpectedly giggled, which triggered an answering laugh from her boyfriend, neither of which had an innocent tone. In her mind’s eye, Camilla watched Karen snapping the hood ornament off some owner’s expensive Mercedes-Benz sedan. Vandals, she thought, and trophy hunters. Not so different from kids two generations hence.