At the funeral, Myra hands Richie a box. "This is for you," she says coldly, and then leaves before Richie has the chance to thank her.

He leaves it shut and carefully taped in the front seat of his car the entire six hour drive back to Derry, keeps it as he drives past his old house, past Eddie's, past the vacant lot that had been Eddie Kaspbrak's final resting place, keeps it shut until he reaches the Kissing Bridge. There, with his back pressed against their carved initials, he finally, carefully, removes the lid.

The blanket is on top, folded carefully in a Ziploc bag. Richie's breath catches for a moment and he opens the bag, breathing in Eddie's scent-clean and vaguely medicinal, a hint of Irish spring-holding and rubbing it against his cheek as he begins to read.

Dear Richie,

This is such bullshit. I miss you. But don't worry. I'll get out of Mom Jail eventually and we can be together again. I'll always find a way to be with you.

Love,

Eds.

He sits and reads, one right after the other, until his back aches and the light is dying, and when he gets up, lid firmly on the box, he brings the blanket to his lips. "I miss you, Eds," he says, getting back into the car, the blanket still in his hand as he leaves Derry in the rear view mirror for the last time.