Curtains twitched in windows up and down the block. The Whitaker place had sat empty for three years, ever since old Mrs. Whitaker passed and her kids sold it to some out-of-state buyer. Now, here it was, alive again.

The moving truck doors slammed. A younger girl—twelve, maybe—chased a golden retriever across the lawn, laughing. A man in a polo shirt directed movers with hand gestures, his voice warm and easy.

Above everything, one sound cut through the morning air. The chime of the Hawkins High bell tower, ringing eight o'clock. First day of school. Twenty-four hours away.