Trigger warning: Mention of suicidal ideation.

Three weeks after Eddie died, he called Ben.

"It's me."

"Motherfucker," said Ben, and Eddie almost ripped his stitches laughing.

"E— Ed— Eddie?"

"I didn't think I called Bill."

"What... How…"

"I'm not sure," said Eddie. "I just— I had to stick around."

"You had to stick around," Ben repeated.

"Yeah," said Eddie. "Myra—"

"You had to stick around for Myra?"

"No," Eddie said. "Look, I don't have much time till she checks on me. They found me on the street outside the Neibolt House the day after it collapsed. I was taken to Bangor General. My wallet was still in my pants, so the nurses called Myra. She had me airlifted back to New York. She's got me locked up. She says it's for my own good. I've got to get out of here. Are you up for a rescue mission?"

"Eddie, I… Of course, but…"

"You don't think I'm real."

"I don't understand how you're alive," Ben said gently. He wanted to call Bev, but she was back in Chicago, finalizing her divorce.

"I think— I just believed I wasn't going to die. So I didn't." Before Ben could respond to that, Eddie said, "I didn't believe hard enough when I threw the poker. When it came to saving my own life, sure, but not Richie. I—"

"Hey," said Ben. "You did save Richie."

Then Eddie went all quiet and honest, in a way the Losers only ever were with each other.

"He saved me too."

"What do you mean?" asked Ben, even more gently.

"Where is he?"

"Eddie…"

Something in Ben's tone had Eddie reaching for his inhaler. "Where is he, Ben?"

At least his concern for Richie seemed to finally convince Ben it was really him.

"Richie's in a hospital. He's not hurt, but…. He had us fooled at first. We thought he and Mike were the last to leave. They drove to the airport together and everything, but Mike got on a plane to Florida, and we found out later Richie was squatting at his old place. Bev just straight up asked Richie if he was suicidal. He laughed, but it wasn't… good. He said that sounded like a lot of work."

Eddie gave in and grabbed his inhaler.

"Richie has his problems. We all do, but... losing you is what did it. We had to drag him out of there. Away from your— from you. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry, Eddie—"

"No," said Eddie. "I'm glad you got him out. I'm not sure he could have come back."

"Not after that," Ben agreed. "There's something you should know. It's not my place, but I don't think that matters anymore. Richie— He loves you. He's been in love with you since forever. I can recognize pining, and— I don't think you could break his heart more than it already is, but just…"

"I don't want to break his heart," said Eddie. "I—"

"He's what you stuck around for?"

"Yes."

The rescue mission was a success, because Ben was so unfairly attractive. He flirted a little, and Myra let him in with a blush. She was flushed for a different reason when she found out he was one of Eddie's friends from Derry, and she was downright livid when he kicked Eddie's door open. All that running had really paid off.

They drove the seven hours to Bangor, blasting 90s pop music from a station that never disappeared despite the distance, and Eddie wondered if he had magic powers not. Probably not. He didn't even like 90s pop. That didn't stop him from singing along to Britney Spears, top down, top volume. Eddie was giddy with his escape from Myra, his escape from death. Eddie was worried about Richie.

Ben went in first, tried to break it easy, because they've all hallucinated some fuck up shit, but Richie said, "I'll know. Just let me see him. I'll know."

Six weeks after Eddie died, got a divorce. He didn't go back to New York. He mailed the papers from Los Angeles to the Queens Detention Complex, where Myra signed them with a flexible pen.