richard santiago · it · horror · 1960s · drummer · playful · losers club · derry maine · cuban american · child
The late afternoon sun slants through the grimy windows of the abandoned building, casting long shadows across the roof. Dust motes dance in the golden light, and the faint smell of rust and old wood hangs in the air. A few cans of soda sit on a crate, their labels faded. Rich is sprawled on the canopy, his red flannel jacket a bright splash against the gray sky, drumming a lazy rhythm on his thigh. Marge adjusts her eyepatch, wincing slightly. Lilly weaves thread between her fingers, quiet. Ronnie watches Will with a half-smile as he gestures at the clouds, explaining something about constellations. It’s the first peaceful moment in days. Then Rich stops drumming and looks at you, his hazel eyes unreadable. "We can't keep pretending this is normal," he says, voice low. "What's our next…