'His head was off； Jonesy。 It was laying in the ditch and his eyes were full of mud。'
There was a click； then dead silence。 Jonesy hung up the phone and walked back to the window。 The driveway was gone。 Derry was gone。 He was looking at Hole in the Wall under a pale clear early…morning sky。 The roof was black instead of green； which meant this was Hole in the Wall as it had been before 1982； when the four of them； then strapping high…school boys （well； Henry had never been what you'd call strapping）； had helped Beav's Dad put up the green shingles the camp still wore。
Only Jonesy needed no such landmark to know what time it was。 No more than he needed someone to tell him the green shingles were no more； Hole in the Wall was no more； Henry had burned it to the ground。 In a moment the door would open and Beaver would run out。 It was 1978； the year all this had really started； and in a moment Beaver would run out； wearing only his boxer shorts and his many…zippered motorcycle jacket； the orange bandannas fluttering。 It was 1978； they were young 。 。 。 and they had changed。 No more same shit； different day。 This was the day when they began to realize just how much they had changed。
Jonesy stared out the window； fascinated。
The door opened。
Beaver Clarendon； age fourteen； ran out。
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
HENRY AND OWEN
1
Henry watched Underhill trudge toward him in the glare of the security lights。 Underhill's head was bent against the snow and the intensifying wind。 Henry opened his mouth to call out； but before he could； he was overwhelmed； nearly flattened； by a sense of Jonesy。 And then a memory came； blotting out Underhill and this brightly lit； snowy world pletely。 All at once it was 1978 again； not October but November and there was blood； blood on cattails； broken glass in marshy water； and then the bang of the door。
2
Henry awakes from a terrible confused dream … blood； broken glass； the rich smells of gasoline and burning rubber … to the sound of a banging door and a blast of cold air。 He sits up and sees Pete sitting up beside him； Pete's hairless chest covered with goosebumps。 Henry and Pete are on the floor in their sleeping…bags because they lost the four…way toss。 Beav and Jonesy got the bed Oater there will be a third bedroom at Hole in the Wall； but now there are only two and Lamar has one all to himself； by the divine right of adulthood）； only now Jonesy is alone in the bed； also sitting up； also looking confused and frightened。
Scooby…ooby…Doo； where are you； Henry thinks for no appreciable reason as he gropes for his glasses on the windowsill。 In his nose he can still smell gas and burning tires。 We got some work to do now…
'Crashed；' Jonesy says thickly； and throws back the covers。 His chest is bare； but like Henry and Pete； he wore his socks and longjohn bottoms to bed。
'Yeah； went in the water；' Pete says； his face suggesting he doesn't have the slightest idea what he's talking about。 'Henry； you got his shoe…'
'Moccasin…'Henry says； but he hasn't any idea what he's talking about either。 Nor wants to。
'Beav；' Jonesy says； and gets out of bed in a clumsy lunge。 One of his stocking…clad feet es down on Pete's hand。
'Ow！' Pete cries。 'Ya stepped on me； ya fuckin gomer； watch where you're…'
'Shut up； shut up；' Henry says； grabbing Pete's shoulder and giving it a shake。 'Don't wake up Mr Clarendon！'
Which would be easy； because the door of the boys' bedroom is open。 So is the door on the far side of the big central room； the one to the outside。 No wonder they're cold； there's a hell of a draft。 Now that Henry has his eyes back on （that is how he thinks of it）； he can see the dreamcatcher out there dancing in the cold November breeze ing in through the open door。
'Where's Duddits？' Jonesy asks in a dazed； I'm…still…dreaming voice。 'Did he go out with Beaver？'
'He's back in Derry； foolish；' Henry says； getting up and pulling on his thermal undershirt。 And he doesn't feel that Jonesy is foolish； not really； he also has a sense that Duddits was just here with them。
It was the dream； he thinks。 Duddits was in the dream。 He was sitting on the bank。 He was crying。 He was so。 He didn't mean to。 If anyone meant to； it was us。
And there is still crying。 He can hear it； ing in through the front door； carried on the breeze。 It's not Duddits； though； it's the Beav。
They leave the room in a line； pulling on scraps of clothes as they go； not bothering with their shoes； which would take too long。
One good thing … judging from the tin city of beer…cans on the kitchen table （plus a suburb of same on the coffee…table）； it'll take more than a couple of open doors and some whispering kids to wake up Beaver's Dad。
The big granite doorstep is freezing under Henry's stocking feet； cold in the deep thoughtless way death must be cold； but he barely notices。
He sees the Beaver right away。 He's at the foot of the maple tree with the deer…stand in it； on his knees as if praying。 His legs and feet are bare； Henry sees。 He's wearing his motorcycle jacket； and tied up and down its arms； fluttering like pirate's finery； are the orange bandannas his father made his son wear when Beaver insisted on wearing such a damned foolish unhunterly thing in the woods。 The outfit looks pretty funny； but there's nothing funny about that agonized face tilted up toward the maple's nearly bare branches。 The Beav's cheeks are streaming with tears。
Henry breaks into a run。 Pete and Jonesy follow suit； their breath puffing white in the chill morning air。 The needle…strewn ground under Henry's feet is almost as hard and cold as the granite doorstep。
He drops to his knees beside Beaver； scared and somehow awed by those tears。 Because the Beav isn't just misting up； like the hero of a movie who may be allowed to shed a manly drop or two when his dog or his girlfriend dies； Beav is running like Niagara Falls。 From his nose hang two ropes of clear glistening snot。 You never saw stuff like that in the movies。
'Gross；' Pete says。
Henry looks at him impatiently； but then he sees Pete isn't looking at Beaver but past him； at a steaming puddle of vomit。 In it are kernels of last night's corn （Lamar Clarendon believes passionately in the virtues of canned food when it es to camp cooking） and strings of last night's fried chicken。 Henry's stomach takes a big unhappy lurch。 And just as it starts to settle； Jonesy yarks。 The sound is like a big liquid belch。 The puke is brown。
'Gross！' Pete almost screams it this time。
Beaver doesn't seem to even notice。 'Henry！' he says。 His eyes； submerged beneath twin lenses of tears； are huge and spooky。 They seem to peer past Henry's face and into the supposedly private rooms behind his forehead。
'Beav； it's okay。 You had a bad dream。'
'Sure； a bad dream。' Jonesy's voice is thick； his throat still plated with puke。 He tries to clear it with a thick ratching noise that is somehow worse than what just came out of him； then bends over and spits。 His hands are planted on the legs of his longhandles； and his bare back is covered with bumps。
Beav takes no notice of Jonesy； nor of Pete as Pete kneels down on his other side and puts a clumsy； tentative arm around Beav's shoulders。 Beav continues to look only at Henry。
'His head was off；' Beaver whispers。
Jonesy also drops to his knees； and now all three of them are surrounding the Beav； Henry and Pete to either side； Jonesy in front。 There is vomit on Jonesy's chin。 He reaches to wipe it away； but Beaver takes his hand before he can。 The boys kneel beneath the maple； and suddenly they are all one。 It is brief； this sense of union； but as vivid as their dream。 It is the dream； but now they are all awake； the sensation is rational； and they cannot disbelieve。
Now it is Jonesy the Beav is looking at with his spooky swimming eyes。 Clutching Jonesy's hand。
'It was laying in the ditch and his eyes were full of mud。'
'Yeah；' Jonesy whispers in an awed and shaky voice。 'Oh jeez； it was。'
'Said he'd see us again； remember？' Pete asks。 'One at a time or all together。 He said that。'
Henry hears these things from a great distance； because he's back in the dream。 Back at the scene of the accident。 At the bottom of a trash…littered embankment where there is a soggy piece of marsh； created by a blocked drainage culvert。 He knows the place； it's on Route 7； the old Derry…Newport Road。 Lying overturned in the muck and the murk is a burning car。 The air stinks of gas and burning tires。 Duddits is crying。 Duddits is sitting halfway down the trashy slope and holding his yellow Scooby…Doo lunchbox against his chest and crying his eyes out。
A hand protrudes from one of the windows of the overturned car。 It's slim； the nails painted candy…apple red。 The car's other two occupants have been thrown clear； one of them almost thirty damn feet。 This one's facedown； but Henry still recognizes him by the masses of soaked blond hair。 It's Duncan； the one who said you're not gonna tell anyone anything； because you'll be fuckin dead。 Only Duncan's the one who wound up dead。
Something floats against Henry's shin。 'Don't pick tha