Chapter Text
The Byers house had a way of sounding alive after dark.
Not in a haunted way, or anything dramatic. It was just that once the rest of Hawkins quieted down, the smaller noises had room to surface. Pipes ticked softly when the heat kicked on. The refrigerator hummed with a low, uneven rhythm, like it was working through a problem. Somewhere in the walls, something shifted and settled, responding to the cooling air.
Casey McPhee noticed all of it. She always did.
She sat at the kitchen table with her shoulders slightly hunched, posture shaped by years of leaning over notebooks and other people’s messes. Her calculus notebook lay open in front of her, squared carefully with the edge of the table. The overhead light cast a warm yellow circle over the page, leaving the rest of the kitchen dim and soft-edged. Shadows gathered in the corners, stretching along the cabinets and curling beneath the sink.
Her pencil moved slowly across the paper, deliberate and neat. The problem had already been solved. The answer sat boxed at the bottom of the page, correct and unchallenged. She rewrote part of the equation anyway, retracing numbers she knew by heart. It gave her hands something to do. It kept her mind from wandering too far.
Across the room, eleven-year-old Will Byers sat on the floor with his legs folded beneath him. Colored pencils were scattered around his knees, sorted into loose groups that made sense only to him. Sheets of paper lay spread out in front of him, carefully placed so none overlapped. He worked in total silence, switching colors often, pressing harder than necessary when he shaded.
Casey glanced at him without turning her head all the way. She had learned how to look without staring.
“You’ve been working on that one for a while,” she said.
Will didn’t look up. “I know.”
Her mouth curved slightly, the smallest hint of a smile. “You don’t have to rush it.”
“I’m not rushing,” he said, a little too quickly.
She leaned back in her chair, resting the pencil against the notebook, and watched him for a moment. There was something serious about the way he worked. Focused. Intent. Like the world outside the page didn’t exist unless he decided it did.
“What is it?” she asked.
He hesitated, then lifted the page just enough for her to see. It was a house, or something close to one. Tall and narrow, with sharp angles and too many windows. Dark shapes surrounded it, trees or shadows or something unfinished. The lines were confident, even when they crossed or doubled back.
Casey had been babysitting Will long enough to know when to comment and when not to. “It looks sturdy,” she said.
Will frowned at the roof. “I think it’s wrong.”
She stood and crouched beside him, resting her forearms on her knees. From this angle, the drawing felt larger, more deliberate. “Why?”
“It doesn’t look finished.”
She studied it like it mattered, because to him it did. “You just started this today,” she said after a moment. “Meaningful things take time.”
Will considered that, chewing on the inside of his cheek. After a second, he nodded and reached for a darker pencil.
“Try this one for the shadows,” Casey said, handing him another pencil. “It’ll make the windows stand out.”
Their fingers brushed briefly as he took it. Will gave her a small smile before returning to his work, shoulders relaxing as he shaded.
The kitchen smelled faintly of coffee and sawdust. Joyce had been sanding one of the cabinets when Casey arrived, muttering under her breath the entire time. The scent clung to the air, mixed with the sharp edge of cleaning spray and something warmer beneath it. She associated that smell with this house. With effort. With things that were cracked but still held together.
Joyce rushed through the kitchen a moment later, purse already slung over her shoulder, keys jangling in her hand. She was talking before she fully entered the room, words tumbling out of her like she was afraid of losing them.
“I swear I won’t be late tonight. It’s just inventory and then Jonathan went out and I know I said eight, but it’s only for tonight.”
Casey looked up immediately. “It’s fine, Mrs. Byers.”
Joyce stopped short and turned around. “Casey.”
“Yes?”
“You don’t have to call me that.”
Casey closed her notebook carefully, aligning the edges before setting it aside. “I know.”
“Then why do you keep doing it?”
She shrugged, eyes dropping to the tabletop. “It feels weird not to. Disrespectful.”
Joyce sighed, but there was no irritation in it. Just tired fondness. “I’m not your boss. I’m not even paying you enough to sound that official.”
Casey smiled faintly. “You pay me plenty.”
Joyce gave her a look that said she didn’t believe that for a second. She glanced at Will, then back at Casey, her voice softening. “You’re really okay staying?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Joyce closed her eyes briefly. “You’re doing that on purpose now.”
“Maybe,” Casey admitted.
Joyce shook her head, smiling despite herself. “I’ll be back before ten. I promise.”
“You said that last time.”
“And I was only twenty minutes late.”
Casey raised an eyebrow. Joyce laughed quietly, then watched her for a moment longer than necessary. Her gaze lingered, searching Casey’s face like she was looking at something familiar. “You’re a good kid,” Joyce said softly.
Casey looked away.
“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” Joyce added, and the words sat heavier than they sounded.
The woman adjusted her purse strap, the door closed behind her, and the house settled back into itself.
-----
Will liked the quiet after the new episode of Family Ties ended.
The television clicked off with a soft pop, and the sudden absence of noise made the living room feel larger, like the walls had stepped back. Dust motes drifted through the late afternoon light coming in through the front window. Casey noticed them because Will did. He always did. He leaned forward on the couch, elbows on his knees, eyes tracking the way they moved, slow and directionless.
“You hungry?” she asked, already standing.
Will shrugged. “A little.”
That meant yes. It always meant yes.
She went into the kitchen and opened the fridge, already knowing what she would find. Leftover meatloaf wrapped in foil, a carton of milk that was closer to empty than full, a bag of carrots pushed into the crisper drawer. Joyce kept things neat, even when there was not much to keep neat with. Casey appreciated that. It felt like intention. Like someone was still trying.
She pulled out the bread and peanut butter instead. It was safer. Will padded in behind her, socked feet quiet against the linoleum, and sat at the small kitchen table without being told. He watched her work, chin in his hands.
“You’re making it wrong,” he said after a moment, not unkindly.
She glanced over her shoulder. “Excuse you?”
“You’re supposed to put peanut butter on both sides. Otherwise the jelly soaks through.”
Casey smiled despite herself and reached for the jar again. “Look at that. You learn something new every day.”
He nodded, satisfied, and went quiet again.
They ate without rushing. Casey leaned against the counter, one foot hooked around the leg of a chair, watching the clock more out of habit than concern. She still had time. She always made sure of that. Joyce would not be home for another hour at least, and Casey never left early, even when she could. It felt wrong to leave a house before the person paying you got back. It felt like stealing something.
Will finished first and pushed his plate forward. There was a smudge of jelly at the corner of his mouth, and she reached out without thinking, wiping it away with her thumb.
“Casey,” he said, mildly embarrassed but not pulling back.
“Sorry,” she said, equally mild. “Occupational hazard.”
He grinned at that, small and quick, then slid off the chair and wandered back into the living room. She followed, collecting the plates, rinsing them in the sink before setting them in the drying rack. Joyce would have told her not to bother, that it was fine, that she didn’t have to. Casey did it anyway.
When she came back, Will was sitting on the floor with his colored pencils spread out around him, paper pulled from the stack Joyce kept on the coffee table. He had started a new drawing. Casey watched from the couch, knees tucked up, her back against the armrest.
“What is it this time?” she asked.
Will didn’t look up. “I don’t know yet.”
“That’s usually the best kind.”
He nodded again, pressing harder with the pencil, the paper making a soft scratching sound. After a minute, he spoke again, quieter this time. “Mom says you’re really smart.”
Casey blinked, caught off guard. “She does?”
“Yeah. She said you could probably go anywhere you want.”
The words landed heavier than they should have. She shifted on the couch, smoothing a nonexistent wrinkle in her jeans. “Well,” she said carefully, “your mom’s very nice.”
Will frowned at his drawing. “That’s not an answer.”
She laughed, low and brief. “You’re too young to be calling people out like that.”
He shrugged, unconcerned. “Jonathan does.”
That sounded right.
Casey leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “I do okay in school,” she said. “That doesn’t mean I can just go wherever.”
“But you want to,” Will said. It was not a question.
She hesitated, then shrugged. “I don't know.”
He switched pencils, blue replacing red. “Where?”
“Who knows,” she said honestly. “Somewhere nobody knows me.”
Will finally looked up at her then, eyes thoughtful. “Why wouldn’t you want people to know you?”
The question was simple. The answer was not.
She took a breath, slow and steady, the way she always did when she felt herself tipping toward something she didn’t want to explain. “Sometimes,” she said, choosing each word, “people think they know you already. And then they stop listening.”
Will considered that. He went back to his drawing, nodding faintly. “Like teachers.”
“Exactly like teachers.”
He smiled at that, then asked, “Do you think you’ll leave Hawkins?”
The clock ticked loudly on the wall, the sound suddenly intrusive. Casey glanced at it again, then back at Will.
“Maybe,” she said. “After I graduate.”
“What if you don’t?” he asked.
She shrugged. “Then I guess I stay.”
He did not look satisfied with that answer, but he didn’t push. Will was good at that. He asked questions the way other kids asked favors, without expecting to get them.
After a while, he held up the drawing. It was a house, slightly crooked, with smoke curling out of the chimney. Stick figures stood in the yard. One of them was taller than the others, hair drawn in dark strokes, standing a little apart.
“Is that me?” Casey asked.
He nodded. “When you come over.”
Her throat tightened, unexpected. She swallowed it down, smiling. “You make me sound very mysterious.”
He grinned, proud. “You kind of are.”
She reached out and ruffled his hair, gentle. “Don’t tell anyone. I have a reputation to maintain.”
He laughed, a quiet sound, and went back to coloring. The light outside shifted, the sun dipping lower, shadows stretching across the floor. Casey stood and gathered the pencils, nudging them into a pile so they wouldn’t roll under the couch.
“Alright,” she said. “We should start cleaning up. Your mom will be home soon.”
Will groaned softly but obeyed, folding his drawing carefully and setting it on the table. He watched her as she straightened the cushions, the same way he always did, like he was trying to memorize the way she moved.
“Casey?”
“Yeah?”
“You won't leave me? Right?”
She paused, one hand on the back of the couch. The honest answer pressed at the back of her teeth. She did not know. She did not know how far she would go, or how long she would be gone, or whether coming back would hurt more than staying.
She smiled anyway. “Well not at this rate,” she said. “Someone’s gotta keep your colored pencil and crayon collection up to date.”
He seemed to accept that, and the tension eased out of his shoulders. Casey watched him for another moment, then looked away, the familiar ache settling in her chest. Wanting more felt selfish sometimes. Wanting to leave when people were just trying to get by felt worse. She told herself she was allowed to want things. She told herself it did not make her ungrateful. Some days, she believed it.
The front door rattled, keys turning in the lock, and Joyce’s voice carried down the hallway, tired but warm. “Will? I’m home.”
Will lit up, running to greet her, and Casey followed at a slower pace, hanging back the way she always did. Joyce looked relieved when she saw her, like Casey’s presence meant something had gone right that day.
“Hey,” Joyce said, shrugging off her jacket. “Everything okay?”
“All good,” Casey said. “He ate, he drew, he corrected my sandwich technique.”
Joyce laughed, rubbing Will’s hair. “Sounds about right.”
She reached for her purse, pulling out a few extra bills. Casey took them, folded them carefully, then set them on the corner of the table.
“You don’t have to,” Joyce said, already knowing.
“I know,” Casey replied. “But i'm going to anyway, so let’s just pretend this is efficient.”
Joyce shook her head, smiling, and squeezed Casey’s arm. “You’re a good kid.”
Casey swallowed, nodding. Praise always felt heavier coming from Joyce. Like it meant more than she knew what to do with.
She gathered her bag, slinging it over her shoulder, and waved to Will. “See you later.”
“Later,” he echoed.
Outside, the air had cooled, the sky turning that soft, washed-out blue that came before evening. Casey stepped off the porch and rolled her bike onto the sidewalk, the Byers house shrinking behind her as she walked.
She did not look back.
Not because she didn’t care. Because if she did, she might stay longer than she meant to.
-----
The bike home took seven minutes if she didn’t stop.
Casey stopped anyway.
She slowed near the edge of the street where the houses thinned and the road dipped just enough to make Hawkins feel smaller than it already was. The air smelled like cut grass and old pavement, that warm, dusty scent that clung to the town once the sun started to go down. Cicadas buzzed somewhere nearby, loud and relentless. She adjusted the strap of her bag on her shoulder and biked slower, counting each roation without meaning to.
The McPhee house sat back from the road, tidy in a way that felt intentional rather than warm. The porch light was already on. It always was. Her father liked things done early. It made the house look prepared, like it had nothing to hide.
She climbed the steps and let herself in, careful to close the door quietly behind her.
The living room lamp was on, casting a yellow glow over the furniture. Her father sat in his usual chair, one leg crossed over the other, a glass of scotch resting in his hand. The television murmured low, some local news segment playing without his full attention. He glanced up when she came in, eyes flicking briefly to the clock on the wall.
“You’re back,” he said.
“Yes, sir.”
He nodded once, as if that settled something. “On time.”
She set her bag down by the stairs, shoes neatly aligned next to the door. It was muscle memory at this point. She had learned young which things were worth being precise about. “I was at the Byers’,” she added, though he hadn’t asked. “Watching Will.”
“I know.”
Of course he did. Hawkins was small like that. And her father had always known more than she realized. She moved toward the kitchen, but his voice stopped her.
“Cassandra.”
She turned back, waiting. He took a sip from his glass, eyes still on the television. “They pay you?”
“Yes.”
“And you took it?”
“Yes, sir.”
He hummed, noncommittal. “You don’t need to rely on charity.”
“It’s not charity,” she said, then bit back the rest of it. Joyce needed the help. Casey needed the work. It was an exchange. Fair and simple.
Her father finally looked at her, expression sharp but not surprised. “You’re sixteen. You should be thinking about better use of your time.”
“I am,” she said quietly.
He raised an eyebrow. “Babysitting isn’t a future.”
“It helps,” she replied. “And my grades are good.”
“They could be better.”
The words landed where they always did, familiar and heavy. She nodded, accepting them the way she accepted the weather. There was no point arguing facts with someone who wasn’t interested in them.
“I’ll be in my room,” she said.
He watched her for a moment longer, then waved a hand, dismissing her without looking. “Don’t stay up too late. You’ve got school.”
“Yes, sir.”
She climbed the stairs slowly, each step creaking in its own specific way. Her room sat at the end of the hall, door closed, light off. She paused before opening it, listening to the low murmur of the television downstairs, the faint clink of glass as her father set it down.
Inside, her room was neat but not sparse. Books stacked on her desk, notebooks lined up by subject, a corkboard above it cluttered with schedules and reminders written in her precise handwriting. A few photos taped near the mirror. Her and Christopher at the lake, both squinting into the sun. Christopher in his bright green varsity jacket, arm slung around her shoulders, smiling like the world was something he’d already figured out.
She did not look at that one for long.
She shut the door and leaned back against it, exhaling slowly. The quiet pressed in around her, thick and familiar. This was the part of the day that always felt the longest. Not because it was loud or dramatic, but because there was nothing left to distract her.
She changed into an old sweatshirt and jeans, then sat at her desk, opening her notebook without really seeing the page. Homework waited. It always did. She stared at the first problem, pencil hovering, thoughts drifting despite herself.
Joyce’s voice echoed in her head. Will’s quiet questions. The way he had said her name like it meant something.
She wondered, not for the first time, what it would feel like to leave Hawkins without looking back. To go somewhere no one knew her last name, no one associated her with a tragedy or a rumor or a boy frozen forever at sixteen.
Downstairs, the television clicked off. The sound made her stiffen. She listened as her father moved through the living room, footsteps measured, deliberate. He paused at the bottom of the stairs. “Cassandra,” he called.
She closed her notebook and stood, opening the door. “Yes, sir?”
He was halfway up the stairs already, glass still in his hand. The scotch caught the light, amber and steady. He stopped a few steps below her, looking up with an expression she could never quite read. “You hear from your mother?” he asked. He always asked.
Though, the question hit harder than she expected. “No,” she said. “Not in a while.”
He nodded, as if that confirmed something. “Figures.”
She hesitated, then spoke before she could stop herself. “She said she might come by this Christmas.”
His jaw tightened. “She says a lot of things.”
“I know.”
He studied her for a moment, eyes narrowing slightly. “Don’t get your hopes up.”
“I’m not.”
He took another sip, gaze drifting past her, down the hallway. “You should focus on what’s in front of you. Not distractions.”
Something flared in her chest, quick and sharp. “I am focused.”
“Are you?” he asked. “Because from where I’m standing, you’re wasting time.”
Her fingers curled at her sides. She forced them to relax, ignoring the fact that her father never liked to put something to rest. He always needed to do more, to say more. “I do everything I’m supposed to.”
“Doing what you’re supposed to isn’t the same as doing enough.”
"But when Christopher-"
"Enough!"
Her fathers tone was sharp, yet uninterested in anything else she had to say. In a twisted way, she liked how familiar it sounded. Familiar and suffocating. But she just nodded, swallowing the response that threatened to spill out. “I’ll do better,” she gave up.
He held her gaze, then nodded once, satisfied. “See that you do.”
He turned and continued up the stairs, disappearing into his room. The door closed with a soft, final click.
Casey stood there for a long moment, staring at the empty hallway.
She went back into her room and sat on the edge of her bed, hands folded in her lap. The house felt heavier at night, like it remembered things she tried not to. She lay back and stared at the ceiling, counting the faint cracks in the paint, the tiny imperfections she had memorized over the years.
Christopher would have hated it here now. He would have complained about the quiet, about their father’s rules, about the way the town felt smaller every year. He would have woken her up in the dead of night and left without asking permission. He, some way or another, is was always doing things like that.
The thought came uninvited, sharp and sudden, and she squeezed her eyes shut.
She did not think about the accident. Not directly. She thought about the radio playing too loud. The way Christopher had laughed when she told him to slow down. The way the world had gone silent afterward.
She rolled onto her side, pulling the blanket up around her shoulders. Tomorrow would come whether she was ready or not. It always did.
Downstairs, a floorboard creaked as her father moved again. The house settled, old and familiar.
Casey stared into the dark, awake long after the light from under her father’s door disappeared.