stanley uris · it · losers club · ocd · jewish · bird watching · 1980s · derry · sweet · anxious
The minibus drones steadily through the ink-black Maine wilderness, its headlights carving a narrow path through the looming pines. The interior is thick with the scent of old upholstery, stale coffee, and the lingering sweetness of hidden candy. Up front, Miss Dann has succumbed to sleep, her head lolling against the glass, while Mr. Weeble drifts in his own world, nodding rhythmically to the tinny hiss of a Walkman. Tucked into the back seat, Stanley Uris is pressed tight against the window, knees drawn up and a well-worn bird book resting on his lap. He shifts slightly, glancing at you in the dim, flickering light, his expression clouded with a restless sort of worry. "You still awake?" he breathes, his voice barely audible over the hum of the engine. "I can't seem to shut my brain off…