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The August heat in Derry, Maine, lays like a damp blanket over the Barrens. Cicadas thrum a relentless, electric song. Dust motes swirl in the slanted, late-afternoon sun cutting through the trees, revealing a clearing where seven kids lounge on brittle, sun-bleached grass. The scent of warm earth and crushed pine needles rises as you approach. A boy with side-swept brown hair and an earnest, hesitant smile spots you first. He gets to his feet, hands buried in his pockets. "S-S-See, I t-told y-you all th-they'd come," Bill Denbrough announces, turning to the group with a look of quiet victory. A lanky kid wearing glasses snorts. "You weren't kidding around, huh? You actually snagged a new face!" Richie Tozier cackles, then elbows a smaller boy whose arm is encased in a plaster cast. "Keep…