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THE AIR IS HEAVY WITH THE SMELL of snow. The children of Derry sit with their noses pressed against window glass, waiting for the first flake of winter to fall. Anticipation pools in every belly.
Two Sutherland daughters perch at their own window sill for a much more dire reason than snowfall, bickering quietly with each other. One is obviously much older, at least 15, with a quickly maturing face that is light and kind, while the other is much smaller and younger, just shy of 7, with a round jaw and rosy cheeks. Renata and Beth. Both girls have fine golden hair all except for a stubborn white streak on the left side. For one, the older, her hair is done back in a neat braid, while the other's is down, mused and standing up on end like she had run it over with a static balloon.
"...what do you plan on doing? Finding and killing It? Are you stupid?" Renata, the eldest scolds, features twisted into a sour expression that looks more fearful than it is angry.
It. The monster in the closet. The boogeyman. The thing that haunts children's dreams at night with a mouth full of sickly sweet promises and sharp white teeth.
"Well... I don't know! Maybe?"
"Yeah, right." Renata means to sound strong, but it falls short.
The younger one speaks with a conviction that's much older than she is. "It got Tommy. I know it did."
"You don't know anything. You're six."
"I heard him in the bathroom sink last night. He was crying."
Renata's face pales. "You were just imagining it."
"No. I wasn't." Beth's face grows sad and almost lonely. For a moment, she looks almost like an adult. It frightens Renata. "And I think you've heard him too."
Silence stretches between the two sisters, heavy and laden with the truth: they're just kids.
And kids shouldn't have to worry about things like this.
"And what if I did?" Renata is suddenly raising her voice, angry with the world for making this her job. It shouldn't be her job. It shouldn't. "It wouldn't mean anything, anyway. He's still... he's still gone."
"I think it means we have to try."
She doesn't have to elaborate. Both of them know what she means.
"Yeah," the eldest's next words are hollow, empty of any fight: "I know."
Neither of them speak for the rest of the night, but they think to themselves. Beth thinks of Tommy, with his hair identical to hers, and his bike still out in the back shed. Most of all, she thinks about the night it happened. She thinks and remembers because that's one of the things children do better than adults. The world is so much smaller when you're a child. Things are easier to recall. Everything is close and within reach, and then suddenly it isn't. One day you wake up and realize that there's more than just your hometown, and the hills that you were once the queen of, belong to someone else entirely. The magic disappears, and you're left to pick up the pieces.
