Chapter Text
Sunday, November 6, 1983
“Something is coming,” Mike Wheeler said. His voice was low and steady, in full Dungeon Master mode. “Something hungry for blood.”
His elbows brushed the edge of the board as he leaned forward over the folding table to peer up at his three friends through shaggy black bangs. He hoped his expression communicated some sense of foreboding. “A shadow grows on the wall behind you. It’s swallowing you in darkness. It is almost here.”
The low ceiling of the basement pressed down on them, crisscrossed with pipes wrapped in peeling insulation. Along the far wall, shelves sagged under the weight of board games and books.
“What is it?” Will asked from across the table. He sat perched on the edge of his chair, his too-long flannel sleeves pulled down over his hands. His hazel eyes flickered with excitement, and Mike thought he saw a flash of fear there, too. The game was getting good.
“What if it’s the Demogorgon?” Dustin blurted, his voice laced with misery, like he’d already resigned himself to their doom. His long brown curls bounced as he leaned back in his chair. “Oh, Jesus, we’re so screwed if it’s the Demogorgon.”
Will groaned and let his head fall against the back of his chair, his brunette bowl cut shifting with the movement.
“It’s not the Demogorgon,” Lucas said flatly, almost irritably.
So they really hadn’t figured it out yet. Mike smiled to himself and slammed another miniature down onto the board. “An army of troglodytes charge into the chamber!” He loved the way the other three boys seemed to lean in without realizing. He wanted the party to win, obviously, but he never wanted to make it too easy for them. His favorite campaigns were always the ones where victory seemed inevitable right up until the moment when everything went to shit. But they’d rally. He would never throw something at them they couldn’t handle.
“Troglodytes?” Dustin asked. He sounded relieved.
“Told ya,” Lucas teased. Dustin snorted, which made Lucas crack, and suddenly both of them had dissolved into a fit of giggles. Will watched them with a little smirk that tugged at the outside corners of his eyes.
They’ve totally let their guard down. Mike felt a thrill spark in his chest. This was it.
“Wait a minute,” he said softly. “Did you hear that? That... that sound?”
The room went still. Mike paused, letting the silence stretch. Outside, crickets chirped, and sprinklers sprayed his front lawn in steady, rhythmic bursts.
“Boom,” Mike said.
Dustin’s brows furrowed.
“Boom…”
Lucas’s jaw clenched.
“BOOM!” On the third one, Mike slammed both hands flat against the table, causing all three of his friends to flinch back. The basement seemed to inhale as one, and for a moment, no one spoke. The light overhead carved their faces into planes of shadow — Will’s and Dustin’s pale with fear; Lucas’s darker and stoic.
“That didn’t come from the troglodytes,” Mike said quietly. His heart was pounding now, fast and proud. “No. That… that came from something else.” He straightened, unable to stop himself from smiling. It was time to strike. “The Demogorgon!”
Everyone groaned at once as Mike slammed the creature into play, the miniature clicking loudly against the board. Its twin heads leered in opposite directions, tentacle arms splayed like grasping vines.
“We’re in deep shit,” Dustin said.
“Will, your action!” Mike demanded.
“I don’t know!” Will cried.
“Fireball him!” Lucas shouted, more of a demand than a suggestion.
“I’d have to roll a thirteen or higher!”
“Too risky,” Dustin agreed immediately. “Cast a protection spell.”
“Don’t be a pussy,” Lucas countered. “Fireball him!”
“Cast Protection,” Dustin said, a bit louder that time.
Mike slammed his hands down on the table again. He could feel the energy slipping, the moment threatening to spiral. He had to keep it moving. “The Demogorgon is tired of your silly human bickering! It stomps towards you. Boom!”
“Fireball him, Will!” Lucas yelled.
“Another stomp, boom!”
“Cast Protection,” Dustin tried again.
“He roars in anger!” Mike pushed. “And…”
Lucas and Dustin shouted over each other, their words colliding into indiscernible noise. But Will had already made his decision.
“Fireball!” Will called. He released the single die from his closed fist. It clacked against the table, bounced once, and then rolled right off the edge, onto the floor, and out of sight. “Oh, shit.”
The four boys launched from their seats simultaneously, fanning out across the basement in the direction of the missing die.
“Where’d it go?” Lucas grumbled. “Where is it?”
“I don’t know!” Will said.
“Is it a thirteen?” Dustin asked, his voice straining with urgency.
“I don’t know,” Will repeated.
“Where is it?” Lucas asked again.
Dustin covered his ears and began pacing, muttering, “Oh, my god, oh, my god,” over and over. Lucas dropped to his knees, scanning the floor like the die might materialize if he stared hard enough.
The roll would be considered invalid per standard Dungeons & Dragons rules, but the boys had ignored that particular convention since the beginning. It was more chaotic this way, searching under furniture for dice instead of just re-rolling. And chaos is what made their campaigns so fun.
Mike crouched near the bottom of the stairs, peeking under the edge where the blue carpet met the wood and concrete.
“Can you find it yet?” Lucas asked.
“No, I can’t find it!” Will exclaimed.
The door at the top of the stairs flew open. “Mike!”
His mom. Karen. She looked impatient, so Mike figured this wasn’t the first time she had called his name. He hadn’t noticed her voice over the din of the search for the missing die.
Mike straightened on his knees and his arms flew up instinctively. “Mom, we’re in the middle of a campaign!”
“You mean the end,” she said, tapping her watch. “Fifteen after.”
Groans rippled through the basement.
“Oh, my God!” Lucas yelled. “Freaking idiot!”
“Why do we have to go?” Will asked.
Mike sighed and pressed his palms into the bottom step, pushing himself upright. He clambered upstairs after his mom, who was already halfway down the hall toward the kitchen. “Mom, wait, just twenty more minutes!”
“It’s a school night, Michael,” she said without slowing. “I just put Holly to bed. You can finish next weekend.”
“But that’ll ruin the flow!” He hated how desperate it sounded. He hated even more that he couldn’t stop himself. He was desperate. He didn’t miss how she had used his full name. He was already on thin ice.
“Michael—”
“I’m serious. The campaign took two weeks to plan.” He softened his voice and tried again, pleading. “How was I supposed to know it was gonna take ten hours?”
She stopped short and her eyes widened. “You’ve been playing for ten hours?”
Shit. So that had been the wrong thing to say. He needed a new tactic. Mike pivoted and marched straight into the living room, where his dad, Ted, stood hunched over the TV, fussing with the antenna. The screen flickered between static and a washed-out news anchor.
“Dad, don’t you think that twenty more—”
“I think you should listen to your mother,” his dad said, without looking away from the TV. Just like that, the conversation was over. He smacked the side of the television, sighing loudly. “Dumb piece of junk.”
Will and Lucas climbed the stairs next, followed by Dustin, who was balancing the nearly empty sausage-and-pepperoni pizza box against his chest. Mike watched the basement disappear behind them as the lights snapped off, plunging the space into darkness. Will was already wearing his red and yellow puffy vest over his flannel, backpack slung over his shoulder. The game was really over.
Outside, the air felt colder than it had earlier. The street was quiet, and pools of yellow light stretched beneath each lamppost. Mike walked Will and Lucas to their bikes, which waited tipped against the wall of the open garage.
Dustin emerged a minute or so later, jamming the pizza box into the trash and wiping his hands on his jacket. “There’s something wrong with your sister,” he announced, stepping onto the concrete.
“What are you talking about?” Mike asked.
“She’s got a stick up her butt.”
Mike thought that was the understatement of the year.
“Yeah, it’s because she’s been dating that douchebag, Steve Harrington,” Lucas chimed, swinging a leg over his bike. He flicked on the headlight, and the beam sliced through the dark.
“Yep, she’s turning into a real jerk,” Dustin lamented, mounting his own bike.
“She’s always been a real jerk,” Mike said automatically.
“Nuh-uh,” Dustin argued. “She used to be cool. Like that time she dressed up as an elf for our Elder Tree campaign.”
“Four years ago!” Mike called as they started down the driveway. Now that Nancy was in high school, she wouldn’t be caught dead anywhere near their game nights. Not that Mike wanted her there anyway.
“Just saying,” Dustin murmured.
“Later,” Lucas called over his shoulder. He and Dustin pedaled off, their headlights bobbing as they disappeared down the street.
“It was a seven,” a small voice behind him said.
Mike turned. Will was still there, straddling his bike with both feet planted on the ground. The porch light caught the side of his face, and Mike could see the seriousness in his eyes.
“Huh?”
“The roll, it was a seven,” Will said. “The Demogorgon, it got me.”
Mike stared blankly at him. Will was honest to a fault, too good for his own good. It wasn’t the first time Mike had thought as much. Will could have gotten away with it and rolled again when they reconvened next weekend. Mike almost asked, Why are you like this? But Will looked so impossibly earnest. Mike waited a beat too long to respond, and then Will was saying “See you tomorrow” and pushing off, his feet finding the pedals, and then he was cruising into the darkness. Mike watched him until his shape thinned and vanished under the streetlights.
A faint buzzing sound made him turn. The lights above the garage door flickered once, twice, then steadied. Mike took one last look down the street, then stepped into the garage and flipped the switch. The light snapped off behind him.
Mike got ready for bed on autopilot. Inside-out jeans were left in a heap near the door, his navy blue crew neck tossed up into his empty top bunk. He had brushed his teeth too fast, or at least his mom would have said so. He flopped onto the perpendicular bottom bunk and pulled his socks off with his toes, kicking them to the floor. He rolled onto his side and stared at the far wall, beside his Dark Crystal poster. There, an old campaign map was still taped up, its corners curling, stark against the dark blue walls. Will had drawn it. Will, who always rolled honestly. Always took the risk for the sake of the party.
It was a seven.
So Will the Wise hadn’t landed a hit on the Demogorgon. Next weekend, they would all learn the repercussions of that confession. But Mike felt a fondness tugging at his chest, and he knew then that he wouldn’t let the party fail. Will could have lied about the roll, and he didn’t. Will never lied.
Will the Wise was their cleric. He was a lot like the real Will — quiet, thoughtful, always thinking three moves ahead. Will healed them whenever they screwed up, even when it cost him spell slots he might need later. He never complained about it. He just did it, like it was his responsibility to take care of them. That’s something Mike always admired about Will, because Mike felt the same way about the party.
He’d named his own character Mike the Brave when he was seven, before he could even wrap his head around the rules of the game. Paladins were sworn to protect, to do what was right, even when it sucked. Especially when it sucked. Paladins didn’t run. They stood between the danger and the people they cared about, sword raised, even when they were terrified. That was Mike’s job — in the game, at least. But he was the dungeon master for this campaign, so Mike the Brave was currently sidelined.
Lucas was their ranger, Sundar the Bold. He never backed down from a fight and often encouraged the others to charge into battle, even when things looked impossibly dire.
And Dustin was their dwarf bard, Nog, who, like the real Dustin, was a charming wordsmith with the ability to talk their way out of trouble. Or into it, depending on which was funnier to Dustin in the moment.
Mike hugged his pillow to his chest and closed his eyes. Next weekend, he told himself. The party will finish the campaign next weekend. And although he hadn’t wanted the game to end and hadn’t felt particularly tired when he lay down in bed just a few minutes earlier, sleep found him quickly.
Monday, November 7, 1983
Breakfast was always a little chaotic in the Wheeler house. Mike considered this a feature, not a bug, as it gave him plenty of cover to annoy Nancy without his parents noticing, and this morning was no different.
His dad sat at the head of the table, folded behind the latest edition of the Hawkins Post. He lifted his coffee mug to his lips every so often, never once looking up from the page. Mike thought he could’ve cartwheeled down the stairs and his dad wouldn’t have noticed.
Mike tilted the glass bottle of Mrs. Butterworth’s syrup over his scrambled eggs, letting it pool across the yellow surface just as the phone rang.
“That’s disgusting,” Nancy said flatly.
“You’re disgusting,” Mike shot back.
Nancy rolled her eyes and took another bite of her syrup-free eggs. She looked like an insufferable goodie-two-shoes in a frilly-collared shirt with a baby pink cardigan on top. Mike waited until his mom crossed the kitchen with baby Holly balanced on her hip, then tipped the bottle again, this time pouring a generous glug onto Nancy’s plate.
“Oh, Joyce, hi,” his mom said into the phone. Will’s mom. But Mike hardly registered that, because Nancy was glaring at him like she wanted to murder him with her fork.
“What the hell, Mike?” Nancy shrieked.
“Quiet!” his mom yelled over her shoulder.
“Hey!” his dad said, suddenly alert. Mike froze. But then his dad just said, “Language.” Aha! Looked like Nancy would be the only one getting in trouble that morning.
“Are you kidding?” Nancy guffawed. Mike smiled smugly.
“Will? No, no, no, it’s just Mike,” his mom said into the phone. Mike paused, fork halfway to his mouth. “No, he left here a little bit after eight. Why? He’s not home?”
That did it. Mike set his fork down.
His mom listened for another moment. “Okay, bye,” she said finally, before hanging the phone back up carefully.
“What did Mrs. Byers want?” Mike asked.
His mom glanced at the clock. “It’s probably nothing. Joyce can’t find Will this morning.”
The words hit Mike like a drop in an elevator. A sick knot twisted in his stomach. “What? What do you mean she can’t find him? Did he make it home last night?”
“I don’t know, that’s all she said.” When Mike’s face fell, she added, “I’m sure he did. Joyce thinks he probably left early for school.”
“I gotta go,” Mike said, already standing.
“Michael—”
“I’ll see him at school. I’m going to be late anyways.” His backpack was in his hand before he realized he had grabbed it, and he was out the door before his mom could say anything else.
Outside, the air had that sharp autumn bite to it. Mike mounted his bicycle and pedaled hard, catching up to Lucas and Dustin at the corner.
“Hey,” Dustin said. “You look like you swallowed a bug.”
“Something’s up with Will,” Mike said, already a bit breathless.
Lucas frowned. “What do you mean?”
“His mom called my house. She couldn’t find him this morning.”
“Couldn’t find him?” Dustin asked. “Where would he be?”
“Nowhere,” Lucas said. “I’m sure he’ll be at school when we get there.”
“That’s what his mom said. That he probably left early.”
“Without telling anyone?” Dustin asked, and he had a good point. Will didn’t do things like that.
They rode the rest of the way mostly in silence. Lucas pulled ahead, like he always did when he was thinking, scouting the road in front of them. Dustin stayed close to Mike, glancing over every few seconds like he was waiting for Mike to say more. Mike wished he did have more to say, but he was also grateful he didn’t have to talk, because his chest was starting to feel weirdly tight and painful.
As they rolled into the school parking lot, Mike slowed and let his gaze sweep over the crowd of bikes and kids clustering near the entrance. Still no sign of Will. That knot in his chest pulled even tighter, somehow. They stopped and secured their bikes to the rack against the building.
“That’s weird,” Mike said. “I don’t see him.”
“I’m telling you, his mom’s right,” Lucas assured. “He probably just went to class early again.”
“Yeah, he’s always paranoid Gursky’s gonna give him another pop quiz,” Dustin added.
Mike was still scanning the flow of kids pushing through the front doors when a familiar voice cut through the morning noise.
“Step right up, ladies and gentlemen. Step right up and get your tickets for the freak show.” It was Troy Walsh, of course, and he wasn’t alone. James Dante was smiling something sinister beside him.
“Who do you think would make more money in a freak show?” Troy asked. “Midnight, Frogface, or Toothless?” He lightly punched Lucas, Mike, and Dustin, respectively, punctuating the cruel nicknames he’d assigned them.
“I’d go with Toothless,” James said in a lispy, mimicking voice.
“I told you a million times, my teeth are coming in,” Dustin said. “It’s called cleidocranial dysplasia.”
“I told you a million times,” James taunted.
“Do the arm thing,” Troy said.
“Do it, freak!” James demanded.
Dustin looked defeated as he shrugged off his jacket and backpack in one motion. He clasped his hands together and jerked his arms forward so his shoulders nearly touched each other in front of his chest. It was a party trick made possible by the fact that Dustin was born without collarbones.
Troy and James recoiled, shivering in exaggerated disgust. “God, it gets me every time,” Troy said, shoving Mike and Dustin aside as he took off toward the school. James followed at his heels, still grinning like a predator.
“Assholes,” Lucas said somberly.
“I think it’s kinda cool,” Mike said as Dustin retrieved his jacket and backpack from the grass at his feet. “It’s like you have superpowers or something. Like Mr. Fantastic.”
“Yeah,” Dustin said, “except I can’t fight evil with it.”
The first bell rang just as they approached the stairs to the front door. Mike took the steps two at a time, backpack thumping against his spine. He scanned automatically as he walked, his legs propelling him toward Will’s locker. But Will wasn’t there.
“Maybe he’s in the bathroom,” Dustin suggested.
“Or he’s talking to a teacher or something,” Lucas offered.
Mike didn’t answer. He was still staring down the hall, his eyes stopping on every brown head of hair, every baggy flannel, every kid who wasn’t Will. The second bell rang.
“Shit,” Dustin muttered. “We’re gonna be late.”
Mr. Clarke’s classroom hummed with low chatter when the three boys slipped inside. Mike slid into his seat just as Mr. Clarke cleared his throat and lifted the attendance sheet. Mike watched as his teacher’s eyes flicked across the desks in front of him. Then his lips quirked down beneath his black manicured mustache, and he locked eyes with Mike from above the edge of the paper. “Where’s Will?”
“He’ll be here,” Mike said.
But Will didn’t show up to homeroom, and he missed Mr. Clarke’s whole first period science class. The bell rang, immediately followed by the sound of papers shoving into backpacks and metal chair legs scraping across the tiled floor.
“Remember,” Mr. Clarke called out, “finish chapter twelve and answer 12.3 on the difference between an experiment and other forms of science investigation. This will be on the test, which will cover chapters ten through twelve. It will be multiple choice, with an essay section…”
Mike shifted his weight and hitched his backpack higher on one shoulder, waiting for Mr. Clarke to finish. The room emptied out around them until the only people left were Mike, Lucas, and Dustin, standing in a row at their teacher’s desk.
“So, did it come?” Mike asked.
“Sorry, boys,” Mr. Clarke said. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but…” The boys’ faces fell, and Mr. Clarke continued. “It came.”
The three of them lit up. Mike could have pinched himself. At least there was one scrap of good news today. Because they all had study hall second period, Mr. Clarke led them to the AV room just down the hall.
“Yes,” Mike whispered when he saw the machine. He claimed the seat in front of the radio, while Dustin and Lucas stood on either side of him, all admiring the new equipment.
“The Heathkit Ham Shack,” Mr. Clarke said. “Ain’t she a beaut?”
Mike was already pulling on the blue headphones that were plugged into the radio.
“I bet you can talk to New York on this thing,” Dustin beamed.
“Think bigger,” Mr. Clarke said.
“California?” Lucas asked.
“Bigger.”
“Australia?” Dustin asked.
Mr. Clarke nodded, earning huge smiles from all three boys.
“Oh, man!” Lucas cheered. “When Will sees this, he’s totally gonna blow his shit.”
Mr. Clarke chastised Lucas for cursing, but Lucas was right; Will was going to love this. Mike wished he were here with them for the grand unveiling. He felt a pang in his chest as he imagined Will’s eyes widening, that little bounce his shoulders do whenever he sees something awesome.
Mike dialed into a station and adjusted the microphone. In his best Australian accent, he said, “Hello, this is Mike Wheeler, president of Hawkins Middle AV Club.”
Dustin excitedly grabbed the headphones off Mike and secured them over his own ears.
“What are you doing?” Mike giggled.
Now Dustin turned on his own Australian accent. “Hello, this is Dustin, and this is the secretary and treasurer of Hawkins Middle AV Club. Do you eat kangaroos for breakfast?”
Lucas reached to tear the headphones from Dustin’s head, but before he could get his turn with the radio, Principal Coleman appeared in the doorway flanked by two cops. The first was a tall, thin man with curly dark hair and thick glasses, wearing a crisp blue uniform. The second cop was heavier-set and broad-shouldered, dressed in a khaki uniform.
“Sorry to interrupt, but, uh, may I borrow Michael, Lucas, and Dustin?” Principal Coleman asked.
The three boys exchanged nervous glances and followed the adults down the hallway. Once inside the principal’s office, the door clicked shut behind them. The air smelled faintly of polished wood and coffee. Chief Hopper, leaning against the desk, and Officer Callahan, standing rigid beside him, gave them no preamble.
“When’s the last time you saw your friend Will Byers?” Hopper asked.
Mike’s heart might as well have fallen out of him and splattered on the floor. A cold jolt stabbed through him as his thoughts began tripping over themselves, trying and failing to catch up.
“Last night,” Mike said quickly. “He biked home from my house.”
“His mom says he never made it home,” Hopper said.
“He takes Mirkwood home—”
“Is she sure?” Lucas cut in.
“We raced, and then—” Dustin sputtered.
All three boys began talking over each other, unintelligible words tumbling out of their mouths.
“Okay, okay, okay,” Hopper said. “One at a time, all right? You.” He looked straight at Mike. “You said he takes what?”
“Mirkwood,” Mike repeated.
“Mirkwood?”
“Yeah.”
Hopper leaned closer to Officer Callahan. “Have you ever heard of Mirkwood?”
“I have not,” Officer Callahan said. “That sounds made up to me.”
“No,” Lucas said, “it’s from Lord of the Rings.”
“Well, The Hobbit,” Dustin corrected.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“He asked!”
“He asked!” Lucas repeated, pitching his voice higher.
“Shut up, guys!” Mike snapped. He wanted to say that they were both, in fact, correct, and that just because the forest is more central to The Hobbit doesn’t mean it’s necessarily wrong to say Mirkwood is “from” The Lord of the Rings, a story that literally takes place in the same world. But none of that mattered right now because Will was missing.
“Hey, hey, hey!” Hopper barked, leaning forward in his chair. “What’d I just say? One at a damn time. You.” He looked right at Mike again.
Thank you.
“Mirkwood,” Mike repeated. “It’s a real road. It’s just the name that’s made up. It’s where Cornwallis and Kerley meet.”
It had started the summer Mike checked The Hobbit out of the Hawkins library, before he’d known that Tolkien had built a whole universe out of words and not just the one book with the Shire on the cover. He’d read it sprawled on his bedroom floor, propped on his elbows, turning pages late into the night beneath a bedsheet with a flashlight so his mom wouldn’t know he was up past his bedtime. At the party’s next game day, Mike had shown them the book, from which he was already quoting lines. Instead of returning it to the library on time, he’d passed it to Will. Then to Dustin. Then to Lucas. Soon the four of them were obsessed, and Tolkien’s world began bleeding into their D&D world, whether Mike meant it to or not. Mike named an area in their next campaign Mirkwood, and Will had started drawing it right away: black trunks, tangled branches, a dirt path weaving through a dark forest.
“It kind of reminds me of the route I take to get to your house,” Will had said, and Mike’s jaw nearly hit the floor.
“Your way through Mirkwood is dark, dangerous and difficult,” he’d breathed, quoting the book. And so the name had stuck.
“Yeah, all right, I think I know that one,” Hopper said. The room rushed back in around Mike, like he’d been yanked out of somewhere else by the scruff of his neck. That aching knot was already settling back in his gut.
“We can show you, if you want,” Mike said.
“I said that I know it.”
Mike gritted his teeth and sat up a little straighter on the bench. “We can help look.”
“No.”
“Yeah, come on!”
“We know the area,” Dustin said.
“No,” Hopper repeated. “After school, you are all to go home. Immediately. That means no biking around looking for your friend, no investigating, no nonsense. This isn’t some Lord of the Rings book.”
“The Hobbit,” Dustin corrected quietly.
“Shut up!” Lucas yelled. He reached across Mike to smack Dustin’s arm. Dustin shoved him off and hit him back, which launched the two into a half-hearted slap fight. Between them, Mike bit at the inside of his lower lip and took a steadying breath.
“Do I make myself clear?” Hopper stood from his chair and stepped toward them. “Do I make myself… clear?”
“Yes, sir,” Dustin said. Mike quickly parroted him, while Lucas just shrank against the bench and said, “Yeah.”
━━━━⊱⚔⊰━━━━
Dinner was chicken and roasted vegetables, and under normal circumstances Mike probably would’ve eaten all of it and gone back for more. Tonight he just kept pushing everything around his plate, cutting the same piece of chicken into smaller and smaller pieces.
It was too awful to be real. Part of him felt like he must have fallen asleep during one of those bleak news segments his dad sometimes watched, and by some sick sort of osmosis, someone else’s horror story had somehow seeped its way into his own consciousness. It couldn’t actually be happening. And yet another part of him knew that it was real, knew it with a cold certainty that had settled all the way into his bones.
“We should be out there right now,” he said. “We should be helping look for him.”
“We’ve been over this, Mike,” his mom said, leaning over to cut a piece of food on Holly’s high chair tray. “The chief says—”
“I don’t care what the chief said,” Mike interrupted. In fact, he thought the chief seemed like kind of an asshole.
“Michael!” She snapped at him like he had said the second part of his thought out loud, even though he purposely had not.
“We have to do something! Will can be in danger!” His hands kept flying up on their own, his fingers spread wide.
“More reason to stay put.”
“Mom!”
“End of discussion.” She looked around the table, as if daring anyone to challenge her. After a beat, she relaxed against her seat and stabbed a forkful of vegetables.
Nancy shifted slightly in the seat beside Mike. “So… Me and Barbara are gonna study at her house tonight. That’s cool, right?”
“No, not cool,” their mom answered.
“What? Why not?”
“Why do you think? Am I speaking Chinese in this house? Until we know Will is okay, no one leaves.”
“This is such bullshit!” Nancy whined.
“Language,” their dad said mildly, mouth full of food. Always offering valuable contributions to the conversation.
“So we’re under house arrest? Just because Mike’s friend got lost on the way home from—”
“Wait, this is Will’s fault?” Mike nearly stood up from the table with the force of the words leaving his body.
“Nancy, take that back,” their mom said.
“No!”
Fine. She asked for it.
“You’re just pissed off ’cause you wanna hang out with Steve,” Mike jeered.
“Steve?” their dad asked, and Mike had to admit, he was surprised Ted Wheeler had picked up on that.
“Who is Steve?” their mom asked.
When Nancy didn’t respond, Mike took matters into his own hands. “Her new boyfriend.”
“You are such a douchebag, Mike!” Nancy wailed.
“Language!” their dad called again, and Mike made no attempt to conceal his shit-eating grin. Nancy groaned and stood up, shoving the chair aside and rushing out of the dining room.
“Nancy, come back,” their mom tried. “Come back!” But Nancy was already halfway up the stairs. Karen sighed and turned to the toddler beside her. “It’s okay. It’s okay, Holly. Here, have some juice, okay?”
“You see, Michael?” his dad asked weakly. “You see what happens?”
Jesus Christ. He was so useless.
“What happens when what?” Mike shouted at him. “I’m the only one acting normal here! I’m the only one that cares about Will!”
“That is really unfair, son,” his dad said, in the least empathetic voice Mike had ever heard. “We care.” He popped another piece of roasted potato into his mouth.
Maybe Nancy had the right idea. Fuck them. Mike stood up, abandoning his full dinner plate, and walked out of the dining room. He heard his mother protest, but he didn’t stop moving until he slammed the basement door behind him and pounded down the stairs.
Mike flopped onto the sofa, and the cushions sank beneath him in all the familiar places. It was permanently lumpy and dented from years of sleepovers. Sleepovers with Will, mostly. He glanced up at the cluttered pattern on the back cushions: a wooden spinning wheel set beside a fireplace, a bronze tub, a redhead duck decoy on the mantel. Usually, focusing on details like that might’ve grounded him, but tonight, hot tears prickled behind his eyes anyway. He drew in a shuddering breath and sat up straighter.
He got to his feet and crossed to the table where they’d been playing D&D the night before. The troglodytes and the Demogorgon still stood on the board, frozen in an eternal plastic battle.
Some paladin he was. One of his own was in danger — real danger — and what was he doing about it? What would Will the Wise do if Mike the Brave went missing?
Mike reached for his walkie-talkie with a shaky hand. “Lucas, do you copy? It’s Mike.”
Silence. He waited a moment before trying again.
“Lucas?”
The voice came across the static a few seconds later. “Hey, it’s Lucas.”
“I know it’s you. And say ‘over’ when you’re done talking so I know when you’re done. Over.”
“I’m done,” Lucas said dryly. “Over.”
“I’m worried about Will. Over.”
Lucas’s sigh crackled over the radio. “Yeah, this is crazy. Over.”
“I was thinking… Will could’ve cast Protection last night, but he didn’t. He cast Fireball. Over.”
“What’s your point? Over.”
“My point is... he could’ve played it safe, but he didn’t. He put himself in danger to help the party. Over.”
There was a pause. Then, Lucas’s voice again. “Meet me in ten. Over and out.”
━━━━⊱⚔⊰━━━━
As he wheeled his bike down the driveway, a sound made Mike glance back at the house. There was Steve Harrington, halfway up the trellis beneath Nancy’s window, his stupid brown hair illuminated by the lamplight pouring from her bedroom. Steve froze like a deer in the headlights. He was lucky there were more important things on tonight’s agenda. With a roll of his eyes, Mike swung a leg over his saddle and set off.
Lucas lived just down the street, and he was already at their usual spot when Mike cruised up. “Dustin’s meeting us on the way,” he said, pushing off the pavement and falling into rhythm beside Mike.
Sure enough, a few blocks later, Dustin came pedaling up. “I brought the comic for Will,” he said, puffing from the effort. “Gotta make good on our bet.”
“You bet him a comic?” Mike asked.
“Yeah, I challenged him to a race on the way home last night.”
“But Will was faster,” Lucas said.
“Yeah, no shit,” Mike muttered.
“Ah, man,” Lucas said. “This is it.”
They skidded to a stop at the edge of the forest. A rumble of thunder sounded just as Dustin raised his hand to shield his face from the first few drops of rain. “Hey, guys. You feel that? Maybe we should go back.”
“No,” Mike snapped. It came out sharper than he had intended, but there was no way he was giving up now. He steadied his voice and tried again. “We’re not going back. Just stay close. Come on.”
Mike and Lucas ducked under the orange-and-white police barricade and started toward the forest. “Just stay on channel six,” Mike said. “Don’t do anything stupid.”
Thunder rolled again. Dustin’s voice sounded distorted through the rain that was coming down heavier than before. “Hey, guys, wait up. Wait up!” he called as he jogged to catch up with them at the forest’s edge.
“Will!” Mike hollered. “Will!”
“Byers!”
“I’ve got your X-Men 134!” Dustin shouted.
But nothing answered them.
The rain came harder now, drumming against their jackets and streaking down their faces. Mike scanned the shadowy undergrowth, his heart hammering, ears straining for any sound beyond the storm. Every turn of his head, every step, he imagined his eyes landing on Will, safe and waiting, and he’d bring him home, and then all of this would be over.
“Guys, I really think we should turn back,” Dustin said.
“Seriously, Dustin?” Lucas sneered. “You wanna be a baby? Then go home already!”
“I’m just being realistic, Lucas!”
“No, you’re just being a big sissy!”
“Did you ever think Will went missing because he ran into something bad?” Dustin asked. “And we’re going to the exact same spot where he was last seen? And we have no weapons or anything?”
As it happens, Mike had thought a lot about that scenario. He’d been running through it while talking to Lucas on the walkie, and again on the bike ride to Mirkwood. He’d even considered it in Principal Coleman’s office, the moment he first learned Will was missing — which, coincidentally, was also the moment Mike knew he would stop at nothing to find his friend and bring him home.
“Dustin, shut up,” Mike said. And in that brief moment of quiet, Mike could have sworn he heard something that wasn’t the rain or the thunder or their own crunching footsteps across the forest floor.
“I’m just saying, does that seem smart to you?” Dustin asked.
“Shut up, shut up,” Mike repeated. There it was again, that rustling sound. “Did you guys hear that?”
Mike swung his flashlight toward a gap between the trees, and Lucas and Dustin trained theirs on the same spot. Nothing. A twig snapped. They spun, redirecting their beams to the source of the sound, where—
Will?
Mike felt the sharp rush of adrenaline as his eyes landed on a person.
Will Will Will—
No. Not Will. The hope went out of him so fast it almost hurt, and he actually felt himself deflate. But it was someone, about Will’s height, standing in the shadows. A child, roughly their age, wearing a gigantic yellow T-shirt. Their hair was buzzed close to their scalp, and yet Mike knew immediately: This was a girl.