Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

It’s like reading a soggy newspaper in nothing but flickering candlelight. That’s all Margaret Truman sees: fuzzy objects, like smudges of ink clouding her vision. An orange glow flashes across her glassy, uncovered eye. Ricardo Santos—the colorful, vibrant boy who had strutted into The Black Spot earlier that evening—appears pale gray now, coated in spotty black soot. Slicked curls gone puffy and wild. Slim arm steady around her waist despite the uneven heaving of his chest.

Marge might only have one useful eye in this scenario, but both her ears work just fine. And what she hears is like something out of the Creature Features her father sometimes watches on weekend nights: tinny screams blaring from speakers on a television set with perpetually crooked antennas. They blend into the creaking and crackling of the dancing flames, disappearing beneath the erratic thump-a thump-a of her heart. 

She can feel heat all over her body. A patch of raw skin throbs beneath the charred sleeve of her sweater. Her throat feels tight; her darting left eye somehow both too wet and too dry. Duck and cover, kiddos, she hears in the back of her head as she and Rich crawl a narrow path along warped floorboards. The voice of the clown is simply a memory from their little jaunt down into the sewers, but the echoing laugh that follows seems horrifyingly real—as if It is hiding in the smoke beside them, waiting to strike. 

Sweat trickles down the back of her neck. Mats frizzy hair to her forehead. Makes the glasses perched precariously atop the bridge of her nose slip down to the tip again and again. Her chest burns as smoke overtakes any oxygen she tries desperately to suck into her lungs.

“Marge… Marge, c’mon. We gotta—we gotta keep going.”

The words that reach her ears are breathless and hoarse, a hacking cough separating nearly every syllable. It’s enough to grab her attention, to make her realize she’d stopped in her tracks.

“Rich,” she croaks, nails digging into his sleeve. “I can’t. I can’t.”

“Yes, you can. C’mon. We’re almost there.”

“Almost where?” she snaps, wheezing immediately after. “There’s nowhere to go.”

“We’ll find a way,” Rich swears. There’s conviction in his voice, despite how weak and scratchy it sounds. “I promise. Just keep your head down, okay? Below the smoke.”

“Ri—i—ich—”

Marge is crying now—or perhaps she’s been crying since the flames began. She can’t remember. All she knows is that she’s never been this afraid in her life. Not after what happened to Lilly’s dad. Not after what happened to Matty Clements, Teddy Uris, or Phil and Susie Malkin. Not after her eyes had grown into stalks protruding from her sockets. Not even after she’d seen the corpses of her peers in the sewers, or after Matty had turned into a towering, slobbering clown with endless rows of razor-sharp teeth and bells that jingled hauntingly. This right here, this all-consuming fire started by regular human monsters instead of the shapeshifting kind, was so terrifying it made Marge wonder if her heart would stop before her lungs could fully give out.

“Marge,” Rich says again, squeezing himself closer to her side. "We have to-" But then he stops. Freezes.

Marge looks up from over the top of her glasses, through the matted strands of her own hair, blurry gaze landing on the side of Rich’s sweaty, dusty face. His pale lips are cracked and parted. His dark, wide eyes stare into the distance—straight at the smoke and flames, as if he could see through. Beyond.

“Rich?” she squeaks, hauling herself back to sit atop her calves with more strength than it should ever take. With her left palm no longer attached to the floor, she uses it to tug at Rich’s jacket. 

His head jerks then, but not toward Marge. Away. To another spot in the unyielding distance. 

The screams have lessened in volume, thanks to the continuously thinning crowd of people dropping like flies, but the whining sobs are worse. Much, much worse. The symphony of pain washes over her unbearably, slowly wiggling into the pores of her skin like parasitic worms, lighting up every nerve ending and chilling the blood that runs rapidly through her veins. 

“This way,” Rich says suddenly as he scrambles onto his feet, dragging Marge with him. He’s strong despite his small size—thanks to his skills in drumming, perhaps, or maybe it’s simply adrenaline—and even manages to stop them both from falling when she stumbles into him. “We gotta go this way. Mr. Hallorann said so.”

“What? When?”

“Just now.”

“But I didn’t hear—”

“Hey, kids! Hey!” a voice shouts. She recognizes it from earlier, before Mr. Grogan had shown himself to the masked men. It was almost jovial then. Draped in feigned calm. Now, he sounds as panicked as Marge feels. “Over here! Move your asses now!”

The two hold onto each other—Marge’s uninjured arm slung around Rich’s shoulder, while one his own locks once more around her waist—as they steady themselves, bending over at the waist in an attempt to get at least somewhat below the smoke. Together, they shuffle through the chaos, into a direction Rich—and Mr. Hallorann, apparently—swears will be their salvation.

☀

☀

Margaret Truman was an odd girl, or so she’s often told.

She had her mother’s short nose and her father’s thick eyebrows, and a smile that somehow perfectly encapsulated both parents. Her face was still rounded with youth, even as her body began to shift and blossom into early womanhood. Her blue eyes had been perfectly doe-shaped before the giant spectacles on her face turned them into flying saucers.

Marge liked pretty dresses, soft cardigans, and shiny saddle shoes. She liked to gossip and read and dance, as many children do. She helped her mother cook supper almost every night and, occasionally, when homework was light or she wasn’t out at the Capitol Theater with her best friend, Lilly Bainbridge, Marge would work on one of her many (failed) knitting projects. These were all normal traits and hobbies of a young girl her age. But there were a few things about Marge that weren’t so normal.

She liked putting on funny voices and making people laugh with outrageous physical displays, akin to Jerry Lewis or Lucille Ball. She liked watching Uncle Mike work on an array of cars, often lending a helping hand and getting a stern lecture from her mother when she reappeared with splotches of grease soaked into her clothing. She liked playing board games when she thought she could win but was a particularly sore loser whenever she didn’t.

She also liked cursing—although not many people knew about that, least of all her mother. 

Things in Marge’s life had gone sideways after the accident that killed Lilly’s father. That was a selfish way to look at it, she knew, but it was the truth. Marge had convinced Lilly to join her full-throttled attempts at becoming one with The Patty Cakes, a group of popular girls who everyone in their grade (and some in grades above) always eyed enviously. It had been going swimmingly… until Mr. Bainbridge died in that horrible freak accident at the jarring plant. When Lilly came back from a stint at Juniper Hill, the place everyone simply called the loony bin, Marge could hardly recognize her.

They hadn’t spent much time together after that, leaving Marge feeling anxious and adrift. If she could only succeed in endearing herself to Patricia Stanton, she’d be a shoo-in. And life would be a wonderful dream. Maybe then, Joey Navinsky would finally notice her. Maybe anyone would notice her. 

This was a frequent topic of conversation whenever she and her parents sat around the dinner table. Her father didn’t understand, of course; his answer to everything was to join a club. Not a sport, mind you—thirteen-year-old girls surely had no calling for such a thing—but perhaps the CYO (Catholic Youth Organization) or the FHA (Future Homemakers of America). She’d make plenty of friends there. Wouldn’t that be swell?

Her mother only partially disagreed, for she believed her Margie would make a wonderful Cheerleader (no) or Majorette (maybe). 

Marge didn’t want to join anything… except The Patty Cakes. Why was that so hard to understand?

Despite her high-strength prescription glasses, Margaret Truman had been blind. Ever since she and Lilly entered Derry High School as naive little 6th graders, Marge hadn’t been able to see past a variety of insecurities or beyond her own selfish desires. Not until… It happened. 

Teddy, Phil, and Susie hadn’t disappeared. Neither had Matty, who Lilly swore she’d heard singing in her drain pipes, much to Marge’s disbelief. They hadn’t gone missing. They’d been killed. And not by Hank Grogan, who everyone had taken to calling Hatchet Hank, but by something evil and otherworldly. Something out of a science fiction novel: a shapeshifting monster who could make you experience a waking nightmare, and then tear you limb from limb right after.

Margaret Truman was certainly an odd girl now, with her disfigured eye and a new group of freaks to call friends. 

She was happy to have Lilly back in her life, despite all the mess that preceded such a reunion. They’d been best friends since first grade; thick as thieves and happy as clams. And although Marge had done wrong by her these past few months, the horror they endured ended up bringing them back together, allowing them to come out the other side even stronger than before. 

William Hanlon was new, nice, and very, very smart. He listened and never judged, and was always excited to share whatever knowledge he might possibly possess, which happened to be quite a lot. Marge didn’t know how a single brain could retain so much information, but Will was proof that it could. 

Veronica Grogan—or Ronnie, as she preferred to be called—hadn’t liked Marge much at first, but warmed up rather quickly once she realized her presence was sincere and regretful. Ronnie’s strength, resilience, and complete disregard for trying to “fit in” were things Marge admired greatly and strived to emulate.

And then there was Ricardo Santos. Or Rich, he’d proclaim to anyone he had the pleasure of meeting for the first time.

Out of her four new friends, Marge thought that Rich was somehow the oddest—aside from herself, of course. He spoke Spanish, which Marge didn’t understand, and played drums in Derry High School’s marching band, which Marge never paid much attention to. He had dark curls that were always pristinely set in place, despite how much he seemed to move around, and hazel eyes that shone with light and wonder and mischief. He was rather small for a twelve-year-old boy, short and lean yet bursting at the seams with energy, and was still baby-faced enough to pass for a kid in the 5th grade rather than the 7th.

Rich was a regular chatterbox, even more so than Marge herself, with a high-pitched voice that held a bit of rasp and a lot of warmth, and he had a peculiar interest in little wooden objects, like Cedar Pointe pencils or balsa wood planes or Duncan Butterfly yoyos. But he was sweet, funny, and loyal. Marge had only known him for a few weeks, yet somehow it felt as though she’d known him her whole life. There was something familiar about him, like sunshine warming your skin on a chilly day; something you don’t really appreciate until it disappears, and then it’s all you long for.

Rich found an empty spot within Marge’s ribcage and claimed it entirely for himself, without even meaning to, in a way that left her dizzy and giddy and maybe a little shy. No one had ever looked at her the way Rich had, so intent and searching, and more importantly… no one had ever noticed her the way Rich had. Not Lilly or The Patty Cakes. Not Ronnie or Will. Definitely not Joey Navinsky. 

Rich didn’t care about Marge’s oozing eye scab. He didn’t care about her hopeless attempts to be someone she wasn’t. He didn’t care that she had been a bad friend, and then a scared, desperate one. He only cared about who she was now, no matter how silly or dorky or awkward or anxious that person might be.

Marge was his pirate—bold and clever. Rich was her knight—brave and faithful.

Brave.

Faithful.

Hers.

☀

☀

The roof collapses in front of them, blocking Dick Hallorann from view. Cutting off their path to safety.

They tumble to the floor—hot, exhausted, scared.

Barely conscious.

Barely alive.

Rich looks around—frantically, this time—while Marge stares down at the red, wrinkly skin of her arm through the singed hole in her cardigan. Soon, her whole body will look like this. Soon, her lungs will burst and her heart will stop. Soon, she’ll meet God in heaven.

Rich’s voice cuts through the ringing in her ears, drawing her out of the welcoming abyss. He points to a toppled chest freezer mere feet away. They both crawl toward it; she helps him push it upright when he asks.

“Let’s get in here. It’s the only way we’re gonna make it out.”

“It’s too small,” she croaks, peering into the dark, empty box. 

“There’s plenty of room,” he insists. Marge shakes her head. “The roof is gonna fall! Come on, Marge!”

His shout is loud. Commanding. Confident. She has no choice but to obey. 

Rich helps her climb inside. It’s a tight fit. Cramped. Her limbs barely fold into the space, bending at awkward angles as her head presses into a hard edge. Plenty of room, my ass.

When she tells Rich there’s not enough room, he doesn’t argue. He doesn’t say she’s right or suggest they try something else. He doesn’t say anything at all. Rich simply stands there above her, clouded by smoke, the orange glow of the flames at his back illuminating him like some mythical being. He stands there and looks at her. Stares. Like this is the last time they’ll ever see each other.

Because it is.

“No-o-o!” Marge sobs, voice cracking and hoarse, ripped painfully from her throat. Or maybe her heart. “NO!”

“Marge, stop.”

He presses on her shoulders. Her head. Trying to shove her as deep into the freezer as she can go.

“NO, RICH! PLEASE! NO!” she screams, head thrashing against the wall.

But Rich doesn’t stop or hesitate or even pause. 

He slams the door shut above her with an echo of finality.

She bangs her fists against the lid and begs to be let out, begs for him not to do this, begs for it to stop. If they’re going to die anyway, she wants it to be together. Is that so crazy? Is that so wrong? Rich seems to think so.

He doesn’t let her out. Climbs atop the freezer instead, to further lock her in; she can vaguely hear the clattering above her screeching, but the vibrations of the movement shoot through her like a jackhammer. 

“Marge, listen to me! Marge!” he yells, implores, so loudly that it feels as though his mouth is right next to her ear. If only it was. “Remember what you said? About knights?”

“What?” she breathes, choked and raw. The cogs in her head whine and sputter slowly, caught in a thick sheet of sticky webbing. She’s confused. Disoriented. Heartbroken.

“Knights who sleep with something by the bed? We don’t just pee in pots. We also protect fair maidens.”

She shakes her head again, fat tears leaving tracks in the soot caked across her cheeks, burning as hot as the flames that had engulfed her arm. 

You don’t have to be a knight, she wants to say. Maybe you can find a window to climb out of. No one’s shooting anymore. And without me weighing you down, maybe—

“Remember that day?” Marge rolls her eyes up toward the lid, to where she knows Rich is lying, using his body as a protective shield. “That day all the guinea pigs got loose in the hallway ‘cause… Robbie Mueller, he broke into the science lab? That was my first week of school. And everyone went out to see it. You came out of class with a yellow sweater and a gray skirt, with a string tied to your finger.”

A laugh bubbles wetly out from Marge’s sore throat—unwanted, but unstoppable. Her shoulders, jammed into the walls of the freezer, shake with anguish and mirth.

“You remember that?”

“You were so pretty,” he tells her, far more earnest than he has any right to be. “I remember wondering, ‘¿Quién es esa?’ And you saw me staring and you said, ‘Take a picture, it’ll last longer.’ You didn’t say it mean or anything. I didn’t even know what it meant…”

Marge remembers the day those guinea pigs rampaged across the halls of Derry High School, but she hadn’t remembered seeing Rich there. Not until now, as his words slip into the cracks of her memory like moonlight peeking through heavy curtains.

She doesn’t know what he was wearing—could it have been one of his vibrantly patterned shirts with a brown jacket over top? Or perhaps his favorite checkered jacket with a white tee underneath, just like now, only then it would’ve been crisply ironed and not darkened by ash—but she can picture his face as clearly as if she were staring at it now. What a goober, she remembers thinking when her gaze landed squarely on the new, small boy. His short curls jutted from the top of his head as he stared at her with hooded eyes, his mouth shaping into a comically large O. She wondered if there was something on her face, or toilet paper stuck to her shoe, or an unfortunate stain decorating the skirt of her dress. She really hoped not.

When their eyes locked, for the briefest of moments, Marge remembers feeling something warm and fuzzy rocket down her spine; a sensation similar to crawling beneath a pile of blankets after a long, cold day. Marge assumed the boy (they shared a few classes and he’d introduced himself in each one, but geez, what was his name? Ricky, maybe?) would look away once he realized she’d caught him gawking, but… no. Rather, his back straightened and his little chest puffed out. His eyebrows shot high up his forehead, that funny O of his mouth stretching into a dazzlingly wide grin. A couple of his baby teeth still hadn’t grown in.

It was charming. 

And very strange.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” Marge said in a bright, albeit sarcastic, tone. A few bystanders snickered.

She watched as the boy’s forehead crinkled and his head tilted, visibly confused by her statement. As if she’d spoken to him in some alien language. She thought he might say something back, but… he didn’t do that either.

The curled tips of her hair bounced atop her shoulders as she turned fully away from him to continue down the hall, tugging at her cardigan and watching the pristine tips of her saddle shoes, just in case a lost little critter decided to run out into her path. She hadn’t looked back, yet she could feel that his gaze had never wavered.

“Later, when I figured it out,” Rich continues, sounding much weaker than before, “I remember thinking what I should’ve said back: I wish I could.”

Marge can taste salt when she licks her dry, cracked lips.

“I love you, Rich.”

The words tumble forth without warning or permission. But that doesn’t make the sentiment any less true. Marge means it. Truly. Fully. More than she’s even capable of realizing at such a tender age. 

Silence ticks by in minutes that feel like hours. The fire rages like it’ll never stop. Her chest aches so badly, she wonders if it’s going to crack open right here, allowing her heart to spill out onto her lap, making her drown in her own blood.

Then—softly, on a wheezing, fading breath—

“I love you too, Marge.”

☀

☀

There’s a noise in the distance. Loud. Piercing. Shrill. A dying animal suffering alone in the bloodied dirt. It’s muffled to her ears, as if someone had stuffed cotton in them.

She expects to hit her head on the freezer lid when her body involuntarily jerks, but instead she shoots upright so swiftly that she falls forward and sideways, her upper body hitting the floor with a thud while her legs fly up, locked tightly together by some sort of bind.

“Oh, Margie. Margie,” a soothing voice coos just seconds later. Yellow light assaults her vision when the lamp clicks on, causing her damp eye to squeeze shut. That doesn’t stop the leaking. “It’s alright, honey. It’s alright! Shhh. You’ll wake your father.”

It hits Marge then that she’s crumbled on the floor of her room, not trapped inside The Black Spot as it burns and collapses. It hits her then that her mother is crouching over her, gently shushing her cries and patting her sweaty hair with a shaky hand. It hits her then that the loud, piercing, shrill noise she’d heard isn’t coming from somewhere in the distance, but rather from her own strained throat, ripped straight out of her beastly heart.

“You’re safe now, honey,” her mother assures, lifting her sobbing daughter into her arms as though she weighs no more than a baby. “You’re safe. Everything’s alright.”

“Ri-i-ich,” she hiccups, white-knuckling the collar of her mother’s robe. “Where—where’s Rich?”

“Who?”

“RICH!” she screeches, kicking her legs until they break free from their cloth prison. “Ricardo Santos! Where the fuck is he?!”

“Margaret Truman!” her mother hisses. The soothing grip she has on Marge’s shoulder turns tight. Bruising. “That’s not the kind of language a lady should ever use! And lower your voice, or you’ll wake your father and the neighbors!”

“Please, please—”

“He’s okay. He’s fine. I imagine he’s fast asleep in his bed right now.”

“Really? Are you sure? Did you see?”

“If you’re talking about the little Mexican boy—”

“He’s Cuban!”

“—then yes, I’m positive. I saw him at the hospital with his parents. You were there too, Margie, don’t you remember? Are you having some sort of episode?”

“No, no, I—I’m okay,” she assures, trying to catch her breath. The fine, worn loops of her mother’s terry cloth robe feel rough beneath Marge’s fingertips as she rubs the fabric in a grounding motion. “I just—I had a nightmare, but it was so real—”

“Well, you’re awake now and everything’s alright. Okay? Come here. Up you go.”

Marge rises—not quite willingly, but without fight—when her mother grabs her arms and pulls them both to their feet. The mattress bounces and sags when she’s pressed firmly onto it in a sitting position. On her bedside table is a lukewarm glass of water, which is quietly shoved into her hand and raised to her lips. The drink soothes her sore throat with every quiet, thankful sip.

Rich is alive. He’s okay. He’s at home. He didn’t shove Marge into a chest freezer and hold it shut with his body. He didn’t suffocate inside the ruins of The Black Spot. He didn’t die.

Rich is alive.

Right?

“Marge, are you listening?”

She shakes her head, wiping at her face with a frilly pink sleeve, and swallows hard.

“S-s-sorry, mom. What’d you say?”

A sigh. Tired. Sad.

“I asked if you’ll be able to go back to sleep, or do you want me to sit up with you a little longer?”

“No, I’m okay. Really,” she says, a terrible idea already forming inside her scrambled noggin. “I should get some rest. I don’t want to fall asleep in class tomorrow.”

Her mother clucks disapprovingly.

“Do you really think that’s a good idea? Maybe you should stay home. Just for a few days—”

“Mom, no!”

“You’re still coughing. And all that smoke must have irritated your eye. I’ll call Doctor Fitzpatrick and—”

“I’m fine! You said so! I just—I want everything to go back to normal. If I sit here by myself, thinking about… what’s happened, I know I’ll go crazy.”

Her mother sighs again. She soothes the mess of Marge’s hair to press it flat against her head.

“We’ll talk about it in the morning,” she decides. “Get some sleep. If you need anything, don’t be afraid to wake me. Just do so quietly.”

“Okay, Mom. Thank you.”

Marge swings her legs onto the mattress and scoots backwards, accepting the sheet and blanket her mother carefully drapes over her stiff form. 

“I love you,” she says, punctuating the statement with a kiss to Marge’s forehead. 

“I love you, too,” Marge replies, just before the lamp clicks off. 

Her heart thumps quickly in the dark, ready for whatever Marge is thinking of doing next. She waits for her bedroom door to shut, and then for her mother’s light footsteps to grow fainter and fainter as she disappears further down the hall. She waits a handful of minutes after that before even beginning to reach for her glasses and the leather eyepatch Rich had gifted her several days prior. She had yet to wear it in place of her bandage, though she carried it with her everywhere she went, and right now she needed whatever courage and comfort it might provide.

Marge doesn’t bother dressing properly, aside from pulling a dark jacket over her thin pajama top and slipping her socked feet into a pair of shoes, before sneaking out into the hall, down the stairs, and out the front door. Her bike is where she last left it: leaning against a large shade tree in the front yard. Marge leads it quietly to the street, checking over her shoulder every few steps (for her parents, or a masked man, or maybe even It, she can’t decide), and settles onto the seat, pushing off the curb.

Marge pedals briskly, as if she knows where she’s going—and she does, vaguely, in the sense that she knows where she wants to be. But she doesn’t know the number on his house or even what street that house resides on. The logical part of Marge’s brain begs her to stop, to pull over, to think. 

She doesn’t. She can’t. Because the other part of her brain tells her to listen to the gnawing, off-kilter beat of her heart, as if it had become a compass tasked with finding its true north. You know where to go, it hums. Wherever Rich is, you’ll find him. 

Her bike sails down the dark streets of Derry, the faint lamp lights acting as her only guide, every turn taking her closer to a place she has no clear knowledge of but can sense all the same. From Cullen Drive, down Laurel Avenue, taking a right onto Pearl Street past the high school off Jackson, then turning left onto Milford Boulevard. 

Marge skids to a halt in front of a house, one of many in its row, that is small and faded red with a square front yard and a long, skinny driveway on its left. There’s no discernible reason why her legs froze mid-pedal or why the soles of her shoes slapped down against the pavement here, only a niggling feeling in the fuzziest part of her brain that whispers this is it.

Up the curb, there rests a lonely crooked tree atop a patch of grass, then a sidewalk, then the square lawn. A little gravel path cuts through the center of the green patch, which leads up to some shrubs and a short set of stairs that are connected to a sizeable front porch. There’s an overhang with four pillars, all of them framing a door, plus two windows on either side. Above the overhang are two more visible windows, likely a bedroom lucky enough to have a street view.

Marge walks her bike up the curb. Lets it drop from her grasp. A wheel knocks into the tree trunk. The handlebars clatter against the sidewalk. Stumbling to a stop in front of the gravel path, Marge squints at the house through the dark, her hands clutching nervously at the hem of her jacket while her breaths come too quick to control.

What now? Should she knock on the door? There aren’t any lights on inside. She hadn’t bothered checking the time before sneaking out, but it’s clearly late. Or early, she supposes. Far too early for guests.

And… what if Rich isn’t here? What if his parents aren’t? What if this is a dream and Mr. Hallorann hadn’t guided them down a hole in the floorboards, through a dip in the dirt, and out the other side of the building? What if her nightmare had been real and Rich was—

A vertical sliver of pale yellow light shining through one of the upstairs windows catches her attention. Her breath stutters, though she doesn’t move. She’s glued in place, watching, waiting, heart hammering in her throat.

Curtains part, a shadowy head popping into view. Marge’s eye widens when the veil of light illuminates a rather short silhouette. Rich? An arm waves back and forth—fast, excited—before it and the head teeter out of view. A second later, the room goes dark once more.

One, two, three, four, five—

Marge waits. Shuffles her feet. Counts the seconds that tick by in her mind.

Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty, twenty-one—

What is she doing, standing out here in the middle of the night, all by herself, with a killer alien clown able to pop out of thin air at any given moment? Not to mention the mob that had set The Black Spot ablaze, killing all those innocent people, almost killing her and Rich and Ronnie and Will. All because they wanted to blame the deaths of a bunch of kids on poor Mr. Grogan. All because they refused to believe something so horribly strange could be the tru culprit.

Forty-three, forty-four, forty-five, forty-six, forty-seven—

The front door opens and out flies a boy in a brown jacket tossed haphazardly over a set of checkered pajamas.

“Marge?” he calls in a whisper-shout.

“Rich!” she calls back through a relieved grin.

She rushes to meet him halfway, grabbing his forearms and holding on tight. He looks up at her with wide, worried eyes.

“What’re you doing here? Are you okay? What’s wrong? How’d you know where I live?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know. I mean, I think I’m fine, but I—I had a nightmare and—oh, Rich, it was horrible. And it felt so real. I had to make sure you were okay.”

“Why, what was it about? The fire?” Marge swallows hard and nods. Her fingers dig sharply into Rich’s jacket, but he doesn’t even wince. “Well… what happened? In your dream.”

“We—we couldn’t find a way out,” she begins with a sniffle. “We saw Mr. Hallorann, but the roof—it started collapsing. We fell, and then… you saw a freezer. And you said we could both fit inside. But when I got in, it was too small. And you knew it. I begged—begged you not to shut me in, but you did.”

Rich is silent for a moment, taking in her tearful words as his eyes dance across her splotchy face. His wrists turn, allowing his hands to clasp gently around her own forearms, fingertips pressing into the bandaged burn firmly enough to cause a shock of pain, but she doesn’t ask him to let go. That’s the last thing she wants.

“So, I—I saved you?” he asks quietly. 

“Yeah. You saved me.”

“Okay. That’s good.”

“No! It’s not good!” Marge snaps, shaking him back and forth. 

“But it is! ‘Cause if we couldn’t get out, I would’ve done the same as Dream Rich. I almost did.”

“Don’t say that!”

“But it’s true! Knights protect fair maidens, remember?”

“You died, Rich!” Marge shouts hoarsely. “Your bo-body was right there. Your hand was so cold—”

“Yeah, but it didn’t really happen, Marge. It’s okay—”

“It’s not okay! I saw you die, and when I woke up I couldn’t remember how we got out. I don’t even know if we actually did! It was real—”

“But it wasn’t real, Marge! It wasn’t real.”

“I don’t know that! I don’t know. I’m so fucking scared that I’m gonna wake up again and you’ll be gone!”

“Marge, listen to me!” Rich yells, wrestling his arms out of her deathgrip in order to curl his fingers around her shoulders. “Mr. Hallorann said—he said he heard me yelling for help. But I don’t remember saying anything out loud, so I guess he meant inside his head? ‘Cause then I heard him inside mine. And he told me which way to go. We went through a hole in the floor, remember? We climbed through until we got outside. Will and Ronnie and her dad were waiting for us. Then the, uh, the firefighters came. And then we went to the hospital, and we got that thing for oxygen, right? They bandaged your arm, too. Don’t you remember?”

“Yeah,” Marge breathes with another sniffle. “I… I remember, but…” 

Rich’s head bobs up and down. His hands—which are strikingly warm—slip from her shoulders to press into her cheeks, squeezing them until her lips pop out like a fish.

“All of that was real, Marge! Not whatever happened in your dream. We’re standing here right now and that’s real, too. Okay? Lo juro.”

Marge blinks slowly. Rich’s words drip into her ears like honey, making themselves a sticky home within her frazzled brain. Her eye flutters shut. Her pulse begins to even out, a slew of deep breaths doing wonders to calm her nerves. 

He’s right. She knows he is. What she saw was nothing more than a terrible, excruciating nightmare. And while the reality they faced was hardly any better, at least they both made it out alive.

When Marge nods, Richie’s frown lifts into a relieved smile.

They remain still and silent, staring at each other for one beat, then two, then three, until—

“Whash ah mean?”

Rich huffs a laugh and drops his hands. Her cheeks remain warm even without his touch.

“I swear.”

Impulsively, Marge launches herself at Rich, wrapping her arms around his body and squeezing. Or rather, that’s what she would have done if she’d judged her momentum properly. Instead, the two topple over onto the grass with mirrored oofs. Their foreheads smack together as Marge lands right on top of Rich’s smaller frame, his hands flying up to her waist on instinct.

“Shit,” Marge hisses. Planting her hands into the tickly blades, fingers digging into dirt, she bends her elbows just enough to peer down at Rich’s dazed expression with one eye squinting through crooked spectacles. “Oh, jeepers. I’m so sorry! Are you alright?”

“Yeeeaaaahhhh,” Rich replies, all soft and airy. It reminds Marge of their trek into the sewers, when they’d taken too many of Mommy’s Little Helpers. 

“Are you sure?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Did you hit your head?” 

“No, Marge,” he whispers. “I’m fine.”

Hesitating briefly, she climbs off of Rich to plop down beside him. As he pushes up with one arm, she grabs onto the other and pulls, helping him into an upright position. She shakes her head at the dazed smile still lingering on his lips. Her hair—which has likely formed into the perfect imitation of a rat’s nest right now—tickles her cheeks and neck.

“I’m so cow-handed sometimes,” she says with a sigh.

“No you’re not, Marge. You’re great,” Rich replies, tilting his head down towards the blades of grass his fingers absently tug at. “Real great.”

She pulls her knees up to her chest. How can her heart feel so light and so heavy at once?

“I wouldn’t have made it without you, Rich.”

“C’mon. That’s not true.”

“Yes, it is. I—I was weak and scared and ready to give up, but you kept going. You kept me going. I don’t know how you were so calm, but… thank you.”

“I was a Webelos, remember?” Marge’s snorting laugh makes Rich chuckle, too. When it fades into a comfortable quiet, Rich continues, “I dunno. I was scared. I’ve never been through anything like that before. But I just kept thinking ‘we’re gonna be okay, we’re gonna get out.’ And if both of us couldn’t, then I had to make sure you did.”

Why, she wants to ask. It sticks in her throat, blocked by a sudden wave of emotion. Why why why.

Maybe she’s afraid of the answer. Maybe she’s afraid to know whether or not Real Rich feels the same way about her as Dream Rich did. Maybe she’s afraid to hear him say it was simply something that had to be done; not because it was her, but because that’s just the kind of guy Ricardo Santos is: a true knight.

“You said…” she begins instead, clearing her throat. “You said you heard Mr. Hallorann in your head. Is that how you knew I was here? Could you hear me, too?”

“No, no, I didn’t hear you. But I think I… felt you?”

“What do you mean?”

“It was this really weird feeling. I woke up and I knew something was different. At first I thought, shit, what if it’s… you know… the clown?” He whispers that last part and glances around in the dark, wondering if a simple mention will somehow conjure It right to them. Marge doesn’t realize she’s holding her breath until he begins speaking again. “But it didn’t feel bad or wrong. It felt like—”

Rich stops abruptly, prressing his lips into a firm, flat line.

Marge leans closer.

“It felt like…?”

He sighs.

“It felt like it does whenever I’m with you. So, I got up and looked out the window, and what d’ya know, I was right! It was you. I’m really glad, too. We didn’t get to talk after, with Mr. Grogan and the hospital and everything.”

Butterflies flap wildly in Marge’s tummy.

“You’re the ginchiest, Rich,” she says through a bubbly, tearful laugh. She can’t remember ever having cried so much in her life, but at least these tears aren’t carved out of heartache and fear. 

“Is that a good thing?”

“A very good thing. It means you’re the best ever.”

“Oh! Cool. Thanks.” Rich wiggles in his spot, attempting to get more comfortable, although Marge swears he slides at least an inch closer. “You are, too.”

“Can I ask you something?” Marge blurts before she can think better of it. The dream still lingers, just as a memory would; a piece of one etched from the haze in unforgettable color. “What does… keeyean es essuh mean?”

The pronunciation is butchered, she’s sure, but Rich understands immediately.

“¿Quién es ese?”

“Yeah. Exactly.”

“It means ‘who is that?’ Why?”

“That’s… what you thought when you first saw me, isn’t it?”

Rich’s eyes widen. He jerks backward in shock.

“Holy shit! How’d you know that? Are you in my head, too?”

Marge trembles.

“You told me,” she says in a quivering tone, “about the time Robbie Mueller broke into the science lab—”

“And all the guinea pigs got loose, yeah! That was my first week of school. You came out of class with a yellow sweater and a gray skirt, and a string tied to your finger. But I never told you that.”

“In my dream, you did,” she explains, fighting back another wave of tears. The hoarseness of her voice remains. “I said ‘take a picture, it’ll last longer’ when I saw you staring.” She feels something bump into her shin. His knee, another inch closer. “I remember wondering why you were looking at me like that.”

Rich raps his knuckles against his thigh. He glances away, into the distant black void of his street, then toward Marge with a lifted chin.

“It’s ‘cause… you were so pretty,” he says sweetly. Quiet, but not hesitant. “You’re always so pretty.”

“Oh, Rich…”

Sliding her legs forward, knees falling away from her chest, Marge plants her right palm into the grass and leans sideways. She can’t see too well in the dark, especially not with one eye blocked by a leather patch, but up this close she can find Rich’s face just fine. And with puckered lips, she plants a short, firm kiss against his smooth cheek.

Rich’s breath hitches audibly in his throat. It’s hard to trace anything more than the basic shapes of his features, even as close as she is, but she wonders (hopes) that his cheeks might grow as warm as hers feel right now. It’s difficult to pull away, even just an inch.

“But do you see what I mean? How could I know what you were thinking? You told me in my dream and it’s actually true! What if—”

“Marge, stop,” he commands, though not unkindly. “I don’t know why you dreamed about that or what it means. Maybe you’re like a vidente—some kind of seer, you know? And your nightmare was something that could’ve happened but didn’t. Or maybe the clown’s just trying to scare you! Whatever it is, it isn’t real. It didn’t happen.” 

“When I wake up again, you better not be dead.”

Rich’s giggle is nervous and bright.

“I won’t be,” he promises. He digs a hand into his pocket and presents his fist to Marge, uncurling his fingers to reveal a tiny tin racecar nestled in his palm. She’d seen some just like it in a few gumball machines at Casek’s Candy Shoppe. “Take this. If you still have it when you wake up, then you’ll know everything’s alright.”

Marge plucks it gingerly from his grasp to squeeze it in her own. One of the thin metal rods stuck through the plastic wheels pricks her thumb. It grounds her immediately.

“Okay,” she whispers, depositing the prize into her own pocket and patting it for good measure.

Fingertips ghost across the back of the hand that’s still planted in the grass, sending a shiver up her arm that tickles down her spine. When Rich’s sweaty palm covers her knuckles, Marge lowers her head to rest against his left shoulder. It’s narrow and bony, not at all like the luxuriously soft pillow waiting for her at home, yet this is exactly where she wants—needs—to be.

“Hey, are you going to school tomorrow?” Rich murmurs into her mussed hair. All of a sudden, she feels sleepy and mellow. Too cost to think or move. “My parents don’t wanna let me, but I said I can’t miss classes ‘cause tests are coming up. And we’re getting ready for the Fourth of July parade, I’ll lose my spot if I don’t practice. But mostly, I said I just wanted to check on you guys. And Lilly—she doesn’t even know what happened!”

“I think I can convince my mom, too. She probably wants everything to go back to normal even more than I do. And I’m sure we’ll see Lilly at school, but Ronnie and Will? Gosh, I really don’t think so. What happened—the fire, everyone who died—that wasn’t the clown. People did that. Probably people we see every day.”

“I know. I keep wondering, how could anyone do that? I mean, there were so many of them… you’d think someone would’ve stopped it.”

“There’s something wrong with this town. It’s the clown, it has to be. I’ve lived in Derry my whole life and not once did I ever think something like that could happen.”

“I don’t know, Marge…” Rich trails reluctantly. “I think sometimes, people are just really, really rotten.”

“I guess I’m starting to realize that,” she whispers, sniffling into his jacket. Despite the stuffiness of her nostrils, she catches a whiff of something citrussy clinging to the fabric.

“If we’re the only ones who show up tomorrow, we’ll just have to go out and check on everyone ourselves.”

“You mean skip school? What about band practice?”

“Eh. Friends are more important.”

Marge hums. She doesn’t want to extricate herself from his touch, but she can’t stay here forever. It’s late—the time remains unknown, perhaps even unmoving—and she has to get home before her parents notice, or else she’ll really be in for it. 

With a deep breath, Marge pulls away from Rich, wipes her sweaty palms against her soft pink pajama pants, and climbs to her feet. Rich immediately scrambles to follow suit.

“I should get back. I woke up screaming, then I snuck out,” Marge regretfully explains. “If my mom checks on me again and sees I’m gone, she’ll flip her lid.”

“Do you want me to come? You shouldn’t be alone.”

“I got here by myself alright. I think I’ll be fine.”

“Yeah, but—”

“And if you follow me home, then you’ll be by yourself. I really don’t want to think about that right now.”

“I can wake my dad—”

“It’s okay, Rich. Sincerely,” she says as she turns and walks reluctantly away, leaning down to grab her bike, setting it back onto its wheels, and rolling it down off the curb. She lifts her leg over the seat and drops down onto it, using the tips of her shoes against the asphalt to keep upright. 

“I guess pirates are pretty good at taking care of themselves.”

His words reach out to her the way his hands might, though in his pockets they remain. It’s clear he wishes she didn’t have to leave. Marge hopes it’s clear she wishes the same.

“True. But it’s nice to know I have a knight waiting in the wings.”

One foot lands on a pedal. The other stays glued to the street. Marge chews her lip and glances over her shoulder to where Rich is still standing. The toe of his shoe scrapes aimlessly against the curb. “Hey, Rich? Will you tell me again?”

“What, that you’re pretty?”

“No!” His confused expression shifts into a cheeky one when she giggles. A slight flush spreads across her face. While it’s nice to hear such a sentiment (she hardly ever does), it’s not what she needs right now. “Tell me this is real. Just one more time.”

Rich takes a couple of long (for his stride) steps forward, stopping near the tree. He gazes at her unblinkingly.

“It’s real, Marge. We’re okay.” The ‘for now’ is unspoken. She hears it anyway. “I’ll see you at school tomorrow. We can meet at the bike racks.”

“You got it.”

She finally drifts away from the little red house, starting down the street at a snail’s crawl and only picking up the pace once she turns off Milford Boulevard. There’s an anxious swirl still nestled inside her belly, but the dreadful weight that’d been clinging to her shoulders since she woke up has been delicately lifted by Rich’s steady hands. 

Upon her return, she finds no search party storming the tiny yard in front of the buttercream colored house she calls home. All the lights—save for the one mounted beside the glass front door—are still off, the privacy curtain still drawn shut. With a sigh of relief, Marge hops off her bike and walks it up the sidewalk, rolling it to a patch of dirt and resting it against the stubby shade tree planted beside the tapered stairway leading up a slight incline. Marge takes each step—first concrete, then wood—one at a time, shaking her arms out and inhaling a few deep, calming breaths. 

Part of her wants to turn around and ride back to Rich’s house again, just to be certain what she saw wasn’t another dream or her brain playing tricks on her, but she doesn’t. She can’t. That’d be crazy. It’s okay, she tells herself, repeating it like a mantra. It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay. 

Opening the door just enough to slip inside, Marge locks it and shuffles quietly past the kitchen, through the living room, and into the hallway to tiptoe up the staircase that starts as a straight path then curves to the left. It feels as though she’s blindfolded—and she partially is, she supposes—but she has no trouble avoiding the squeaky floorboards (they’d been caused by an accidental flooding five years prior, which Marge swears she knows nothing about) that are sprinkled along the way. 

Exhaustion takes hold the moment the bedroom door clicks into its frame, turning her limbs to iron and her spine to jelly. Her glasses come off first, then the eyepatch, the strap of which catches harshly in her knotted, dirty-blond hair. The shoes are next, kicked toward the armoire; then her jacket, which is draped across the back of the swivel chair that rests halfway beneath the little table acting as a desk. 

The pillow is cool and comfortable when Marge buries her face into it, but the thin sack of fluff lacks a distinct citrusy scent. When she lifts the blanket to her chin, she can smell the earth dusting her fingertips. For now, that’ll have to be enough.

☀

☀

It’s too warm. Too bright. Too stuffy.

fire fire fire

Images swirled in the darkness behind heavy lids, grainy and tinged in shadows like vignettes, playing in slow motion before fading into the void. There’s nothing worth grasping—repeats of horrors much better left forgotten—and although they disappear as the morning sun rises, the feelings they inspire remain like smudges on a mirror. 

Marge is thrown into consciousness via a hacking cough. Her throat is achingly dry, despite the drool crusted to her chin, and her eyes are crusty with sleep and tears. It’s not until the ringing in her ears morphs into pleasant bird chirps that she bolts upright, one wild eye dancing around the room.

There isn’t any gauze taped to her face; she hadn’t replaced the dirty one she’d peeled off after a visit to Derry Home Hospital, when she’d come home in a daze and allowed her mother to clean her up the way she used to before her age hit double-digits. She’d put the ointment on after a bath (before bed, before the nightmare) and, while tracing the contours of her face, she can feel that the stitches remain nicely intact.

All the fuzziness surrounding the previous night (early morning?) begins to sharpen into focus when her jacket and shoes are spotted—exactly where she left them mere hours before. It takes a second, and a couple of slow blinks, for Marge to remember Rich had given her a tin car. If it’s still in her pocket…

She hops out of bed and runs to the chair, snatching her jacket into the air and digging her hands into both pockets at once. Her chest heaves a silent, relieved breath when she grazes a lump of cool tin. Yanking it out into the open, Marge grins at the little object. Its sloppy paint glistens in a beam of sunlight.

Everything’s alright.

She throws a tired glance at the clock on her bedside table, which she decidedly can’t read, then drops the car back into her pocket and scrambles to hook the arms of her glasses over the top of her ears. A second glance reveals the time to be 7:27. Shit, she’s barely got time to get ready!

Grabbing clothes from the armoire (collared blouse, blue jeans, a dark jacket), Marge races into the bathroom hallway to brush her teeth, scrub her face, and pass a brush through her matted hair. There’s no time for perfect curls; she leaves it straight and somewhat stringy, using one of her many butterfly clips to pin a strand away from the pale pallor of her face. She dresses swiftly and carelessly, curse words hissing out through clenched teeth each time an elbow or knee bangs into the bathroom vanity, then races back to her room. The glasses come off briefly so the patch can go on, followed by the shoes she’d kicked off earlier. Then she gathers up an armful of folders and notebooks, and snatches a pencil case off the table before slipping out the door.

The hushed voices of her mother and father grow louder as she descends the stairs and rounds the corner, stopping abruptly once she enters the kitchen. Mr. Truman sits at the round table with a crinkled newspaper in one hand, a mug of near-empty black coffee in the other, while Mrs. Truman serves scrambled eggs from a large frying pan. Both parents give each other a look before turning twin wary gazes on their daughter.

“I was hoping you’d sleep in,” Mrs. Truman sighs.

“I meant what I said.” Marge smooths down her limp hair. “I want to go to school.”

“You already missed the bus, sweetpea,” her father replies. “Now, why don’t you go back upstairs and get some shut-eye. You need it.”

The fire had been started late Saturday night, ravaging The Black Spot and nearly all of the people inside into the early hours of Sunday morning. Marge had been exhausted, barely holding on by a thread, and likely only still on her feet due to adrenaline when her parents had shown up to whisk her away from the paramedics, where they then drove her to Derry Home Hospital at the far edge of town. Marge could hardly recall being there; the stark white walls and burning scent of antiseptic did nothing to replace the haunting memories of dancing orange flames and heavy billows of smoke. After leaving the hospital and getting cleaned up as well as calmed down, Marge must have spent the rest of Sunday completely out of her mind.

She hasn’t slept properly since Friday night, after a day spent almost entirely at Rich’s side thanks to the fight between Lilly and Ronnie, but that isn’t going to stop her.

“I’ll just take my bike,” she insists.

Her mother frowns so deeply, her forehead creases like a bulldog’s.

“Margaret… I’m concerned about the company you’ve been keeping. We love poor Lilly, you know we do, but she’s been disturbed ever since that horrible accident with her father. I know she had something to do with your eye—”

“But she didn’t! I told you what happened. My glasses broke—”

“And then there’s that Grogan girl. You know what her father did!”

“He didn’t do anything, Mom!”

“He died in that fire, did you know? They announced it on the news this morning. That murderer was hiding right next to you, and you’d been completely unaware! You could’ve been next! And what were you doing there in a place like that anyhow? An illegal speakeasy with faulty wiring! Jesus, Marge, what were you thinking?”

“They’re my friends,” Marge whispers, staring down at the layer of dirt dusting the toes of her shoes. She knows better than to reveal where Mr. Grogan actually is, or that the only risk of murder she faced at The Black Spot was from the mob who locked her in and set the building ablaze. Not to mention the ever-morphing clown living in the sewers. Instead of Derry High, she’d be on her way to Juniper Hill. “Lilly and Ronnie, they haven’t done anything wrong.”

“Well, what about that little boy—Rich, you said? I’ve never once heard you mention anyone by that name, but you were having a conniption about him last night. Did he drag you out to that speakeasy?”

“Rich saved my life!” Marge yells, clutching school supplies to her chest like a useless lifeline. “I met him earlier this month and he’s been a better friend to me than anyone else. I wouldn’t be standing here right now without him.”

“Alright, settle down,” Mr. Truman says, the paper crinkling loudly as he folds it in half and sets it beside his plate. He picks up his fork and uses it to point toward the empty chair across from him. “Sit and eat your breakfast.”

“I’m already late.”

“Sit and eat. And then I’ll drop you off.”

Marge looks to her mother, who glares down at her father with pursed lips. But rather than say anything, Mrs. Truman huffs and spins on her heel, the skirt of her dress swishing angrily as she slams the frying pan back onto the stove.

“Would you like orange juice or milk, Margaret?” she stuffily asks.

Marge slides onto the floral-printed cushion, setting her school supplies off to the left. She scoops a forkful of eggs into her mouth, chews carefully, and swallows before answering:

“Orange juice, please.”

☀

☀

The drive is silent, aside from the crackling radio playing a stream of Top 40 hits, none of which Marge pays much attention to. Mr. Truman slows his Studebaker to a crawl as he pulls in front of the school, parking not far from the sign that has displayed a constant reminder of Derry’s curfew ever since the Theater Incident. The letters are already getting switched around by one of the secretaries, Mrs. Huggins, likely as a result of the supposed death of Hatchet Hank Grogan. Curfew or not, the clown is still a threat. And none of these poor bastards know it.

“Have a swell day,” her father says. Turning his head to peer at her from over the top of his half-moon glasses, he adds in a low, serious tone: “Stay out of trouble.”

“I will, Dad. Thanks.”

She shuts the door quietly and takes a few steps forward, smiling weakly at Mrs. Huggins when she’s greeted with an overly cheerful “Good morning!” There aren’t many others out, just a few stragglers goofing off or rushing to classes that have already begun. Marge chews her bottom lip and keeps walking toward the front entrance, glancing over her shoulder to watch the Studebaker pull away. Once it disappears, she veers sharply from her path in a rush toward the bike racks that line the far right side of the building. 

Hopefully, Rich made it here before her. Hopefully, he’s waiting where he said he’d be. Marge clutches the tin car in her fist and rounds the corner and—

She hears Rich before she sees him, a hacking cough drawing her attention toward the ground, halfway hidden between a cluster of bicycles.

“Sir Rich,” she calls from a few feet away. 

The boy, who had been tapping a drumstick against his knee, jerks his head up, his mouth stretching into a toothy grin when he sets his sights on Marge. Rich hops to his feet, shoves the drumsticks back into his pocket, and slaps his palms against his jeans.

“Capitana Marge! You made it. I was starting to think you wouldn’t.”

“Tell me about it. My mom had a cow. I think she needs some of those pills we took.”

“Yeah, my mom was pretty upset too. She was crying and everything. She thinks someone’s gonna set the school on fire next!”

“Wait, did you tell her what really happened?”

“No way! But she doesn’t believe what they’re saying on the news, you know? About it being an electrical fire. I figured… if I told them the truth, they’d wanna go to the police and that’d probably just make things worse.”

“Yeah, probably,” Marge sighs. “I guess we’re still on our own.” Rubbing her thumb against the toy car one last time, Marge thrusts it toward Rich with a soft smile. “Thanks, by the way. It helped.”

“You can keep it, if you want,” he says, though his smile quickly fades. He tugs at the hem of his jacket. “But I guess you wouldn’t, huh. It’s just a penny toy. You can get one whenever. Do girls even like cars?”

“I do.” Marge tucks the cheap little toy safely back into her pocket. “My dad dropped me off. Did you ride here?”

“Oh, shoot. No. My dad dropped me off, too.”

“Well, that’s okay. We’ll just walk. Some fresh air sounds nice.”

“Do you want to put your stuff in my bag?” Marge glances down at the supplies in her arms, then over at Rich’s bright expression. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear when the breeze blows it into her face. “You don’t have one, and I figure… you might not wanna carry all that around town.”

She doesn’t know why she’s surprised by the offer. She shouldn’t be, not with how sweet Rich has been to her thus far, but it hits her like a punch anyway. Makes it harder to breathe, just for a second or two.

After everything that’s happened since last summer, with Mr. Bainbridge’s accident and her obsession with The Pattycakes, Marge doesn’t feel very deserving of such loyalty and kindness. But she wants to be, more than anything else. 

“You’re right.” At her confirmation, Rich nods eagerly and opens the flap of his bag, allowing Marge to deposit her things into it. Then, with a shy little laugh, she adds: “Thanks. Again.”

“Yeah, of course. So, uh, do you wanna head out now or should we wait a little longer?”

“You haven’t seen the others yet? Not even Lilly?”

Rich shakes his head.

While she hadn’t expected Ronnie or Will to show, she’s surprised by Lilly’s absence. Was she still upset over that squabble with Ronnie? Had she come down with some kind of sickness—a flu, perhaps?

Or… had the clown gotten to her?

Marge shudders, shaking the thought away. If something was truly wrong, Mrs. Bainbridge would’ve called the Truman household that morning. 

“I guess we should just—”

“Hey!”

The duo turns toward the sound of a familiar voice, smiling with relaxed shoulders at the sight of Veronica Grogan cruising their way. 

“Ronnie!” they call back in unison, watching her hop off her bike a couple of feet away, rolling it toward them with relief. 

“Are you okay?” asks Rich.

“How’s your dad?” adds Marge.

“We’re fine. My pops is over at Will’s place. Mrs. Hanlon’s supposed to help us find a way out of Derry, now that everyone thinks he’s dead. I had to sneak past my grandma… she’s gonna whoop my ass when I get home, but I wanted to check on you guys.”

“We’re okay, too,” Rich assures, although he tosses a sideways look at Marge, as if checking to make sure that’s actually true. Her nod is enough to satisfy him. “We were about to go visit you and Lilly and Will.”

“Let’s skip him for now. I don’t want my dad catching me out. We can go to Lilly’s and then wait at the Standpipe. If Will sneaks off too, he’ll look for us there.”

With their plan set, they take only a few minutes more to quibble about how they’re going to travel, since Ronnie is the only one currently in possession of transportation. All three could walk together, but Ronnie refuses to leave her bike behind, and she’s too antsy to follow them—or lead the way ahead—at a slow crawl. “We’ll share,” she suggests, straddling her seat and waiting for them to hop on behind. 

Marge isn’t convinced Ronnie will be able to pedal with that much combined weight, but her fierce conviction isn’t something she’s willing to argue with. So she climbs on behind Ronnie and wraps her arms around the girl’s torso, feeling slightly more awkward and uncomfortable than she had in the same position on the back of Rich’s bike those short few days ago. Rich, for his part, steadies his feet atop the pegs jutting from the back wheel and grabs onto Marge’s shoulders for balance.

In a drawling cadence, and without thought, Marge declares: “Exit, stage right!”

“Huh?” Rich utters, confused and curious, prompting Ronnie to explain: “It’s a theater thing.”

“Well, yeah, but… Snagglepuss, hello? Anyone?”

“Snaggle-what?”

“You mean the cartoon?”

“Ugh, nevermind,” Marge huffs. “Let’s go.”

☀

☀

Mrs. Bainbridge seems tired. Drained in a way even Marge, after all she’s been through during this horrendously eventful month of April, can’t imagine. She blinks slowly at each of their round, smiling faces—lingering on Rich’s innocent expression with narrowed eyes, perhaps wondering whether or not she should allow a boy in to see her daughter. Ultimately she sighs and, with a wobbly smile, opens the door wide enough to usher them inside.

“Shouldn’t you be in school?”

It’s a general question posed to all of them, but her attention lands on the familiar figure of Marge as she waits for an answer. 

“We were.” It’s technically not a lie. “But we got worried when Lilly didn’t show. She didn’t look so well the last time we saw her. Is she sick?”

“I don’t know what’s wrong with her,” Mrs. Bainbridge admits. “I was about to call Dr. Ostrovsky, but I suppose seeing a few friendly faces could be helpful.”

With a sigh, Lilly’s mother leads them up the stairs and through a dark hallway, stopping at a door Marge has been familiar with since the age of seven. She knocks, calls out for her daughter, then pushes the door open to reveal a normally bright room with peachy paint and flowery wallpaper now bathed in blue and gray light spilling in from a large window covered by sheer curtains. The sunlight had begun to disappear on the ride over, blocked by clusters of clouds that usually accompany an overcast day. Marge hadn’t expected rain upon waking this morning, but it’s looking more and more likely now.

Charlie, a droopy-eyed, floppy-eared dog, darts through their legs before Mrs. Bainbridge shuts the door again. Marge, Rich, and Ronnie stand arm-to-arm beside a chest of drawers, waiting for Lilly to acknowledge their presence.

The tall girl, who sits slumped at the edge of her bed, turns slowly to look over her shoulder. Her left arm stretches outward, drawing attention toward the shiny dagger’s obsidian surface, where it rests atop her bed, held firmly in a tight fist.

“Hey, Lills,” Marge greets softly. “Is… everything alright?”

“Sure,” she answers in a quiet, scratchy voice. Her face is ghostly pale, save for prominent purple smudges beneath her glassy eyes.

Marge nods. Bites her lip. Looks down at Rich, who is already looking up at her, then toward Ronnie.

“Well, something happened Saturday night—”

“We went to The Black Spot without you,” Rich cuts in.

Lilly’s blank expression shifts. Her brows furrow, mouth curving into a frown. She blinks rapidly.

“The fire… I heard about it on the news. Are you—” Lilly pauses and glances at Ronnie. “Is your dad—?”

“He’s fine. We’re fine. So is Will,” Ronnie assures. “He’s probably stuck at home, but—”

“We wanted to check on you,” Rich cuts in again, earning a faint smile from Lilly, who finally stands to shuffle closer. 

“I’m fine.”

“Why weren’t you at school?” Marge asks.

Lilly swallows. Clutches the dagger a little more tightly.

“I kept seeing things, hearing things. My dad, and—and the clown. Everyone kept staring. I just…”

She shakes her head.

“We’re going to the Standpipe,” Ronnie says. “Come with us, okay? You don’t have to be alone.”

“It’ll be better if we’re together,” Rich reminds.

Marge nods and sticks out a hand, waiting—hoping—for Lilly to take it. One, two, three, four, five seconds tick by before Lilly does. 

Mrs. Bainbridge seems relieved to see her daughter following them out the door, calling for her to stay safe and out of trouble. With two bikes now available, Marge climbs back onto Ronnie’s while Rich switches over to Lilly’s, standing on the pegs once more and holding onto her shoulders the way he had with Marge. She shouldn’t feel jealous about that. She doesn’t.

More and more clouds roll in as they make their trek to the Standpipe, continuing to brush the morning sky with even strokes reminiscent of evening shades. Will isn’t waiting for them when they climb the stairs. A plan is formed to send Rich and Marge to the Hanlon Family door while Ronnie and Lilly wait on another street, just in case her father is still hiding out there, but they decide to wait a little longer. Will could still be on his way.

So, for now, they busy themselves with tidying their little hideout—tossing trash into one wooden crate and carefully placing toys and knick-knacks belonging to Matty, Teddy, and Phil inside of another—while regaling Lilly with three different sides of the same harrowing story.

They question who might have been part of the mob. Mr. Kersh, clearly. The news was painting him as some sort of heroic figure who perished by accident, but Lilly reveals how unsettling he’d seemed during one of her visits to Mrs. Kersh’s house. Ronnie swears she recognized the voice of (ex) Chief Bowers, to which Lilly immediately agrees is a likely possibility. Rich doesn’t remember what he’d sounded like and Marge can’t recall ever having spoken to him. He certainly hadn’t been the one interviewing her after the Eye Incident, so neither of them says much until the topic shifts to mourning all the innocent lives lost.

It’d been a lot of fun before that, Rich goes on to explain, lightening the mood with descriptions of rhythm and dancing and Air Force Coke. He doesn’t talk about his moment under the spotlight, the way he’d worked the drums like they’d been an extension of his hands. He’s too modest for that. But Marge smiles faintly at the memory.

They talk about Ronnie’s dad, too. How Mrs. Hanlon knows someone who can potentially get him, Ronnie, and Grandma Louella into Canada. 

They talk about how Mr. Hallorann had saved their lives.

And they talk about the clown. How It had been there, walking through the flames as easily as one might walk through a waterfall. Marge and Rich hadn’t seen the creature through the smoke, but Ronnie had. Right there, face-to-face—eating someone else’s face. But they hadn’t seen It since. They hadn’t heard anything in their bathrooms either. After thinking about it for a few minutes, Lilly realizes she hadn’t actually experienced a waking terror since Saturday afternoon.

“Maybe it’s over?” Marge wonders. 

All the others can do is nod—hopeful, but not entirely convinced.

Marge lifts a crumpled blanket off the hammock and begins folding it into a neat square, pausing halfway through when she spots one of Rich’s many balsa planes as it rests atop the netting. She abandons the blanket for the plane, weighing the lightness of the wood and tracing the loopy red script painted into the smooth grain.

“Still haven’t gotten one to Main Street,” Rich laments from Marge’s right side. 

She startles at the sound, though just barely. 

“Keep trying, Rich. I dare say, the wind might just be on our side today!”

He grins at her enthusiasm, pulls up his jeans despite the thin leather belt already holding them in place, plucks the plane from her fingers, and struts toward the ledge. Marge brushes some hair from her face and follows, leaning against one of many pillars to watch as Rich takes several steps backwards before rushing forward at full speed, resembling a pull-back car, with his arm held at a ninety-degree angle. 

He flicks his wrist before slamming into the ledge so hard he nearly topples forward, causing Marge to shoot a panicked hand out, fingers clawing into his jacket and yanking him back like a Vaudeville Hook. Luckily, he stays upright as the plane soars straight through the air. It teeters slightly, then takes a sudden nosedive—dragging their hopes along for the ride—when it disappears entirely into a sudden spread of dark rolling fog. The mass is gray and fluffy, reminiscent of the darkening clouds in the sky, but with an icy blue hue that reminds Marge of stark winter air.

In April.

“What the hell?” Marge whispers at the same time Rich exclaims: “¡Qué carajo!”

“What’s wrong?” Ronnie demands, though she rushes over with Lilly hot on her trail before either can answer. 

They gasp and gape as a cover of thick smoke fog creeps over the town below, engulfing all of Derry in a slow yet steady crawl. The four of them blink at each other in shock and awe, bumping shoulders and shoes as they dash over to the stairwell leading back down to the ground, taking each step two at a time.

Marge’s stomach churns, threatening to regurgitate the eggs and juice she’d enjoyed that morning. Nothing good can be the cause of this. Nothing good at all.