Chapter Text
Family Video was never quiet, exactly—but it was close.
The hum of fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, flickering faintly against rows of plastic cases and sun-bleached cardboard standees. The air smelled like carpet cleaner and old plastic, the faint sweetness of stale popcorn clinging to everything.
Dustin wasn’t supposed to be back there.
Which, of course, meant he absolutely was.
“This is where they keep the good stuff,” he whispered, crouched behind the counter, flashlight clenched between his teeth. His voice came out muffled and conspiratorial. Boxes were stacked shoulder-high around him, some marked NEW ARRIVALS, others scribbled over in thick black marker.
Beside him, Eleven watched silently, her head tilted slightly, eyes tracking his movements with quiet focus. She held the flashlight steady when his hands disappeared into another dusty cardboard box.
“Most of this is junk,” Dustin muttered, tossing aside a bundle of loose promotional flyers. “Training videos, broken rewinds, probably boring corporate—”
His hand stopped.
At the very bottom sat a smaller box.
It wasn’t labeled like the others. No company logo. No shipping stamp.
Just black tape sealing it shut.
Dustin frowned. “That’s weird.”
Eleven stepped closer.
He peeled the tape back carefully, the adhesive stretching with a soft, reluctant tear. The cardboard creaked as he lifted the lid.
Inside were VHS tapes.
Not unusual—except for the labels.
Each one had been marked individually in clean, deliberate handwriting.
IT
THE BLACK PHONE
FEAR STREET
FIVE NIGHTS AT FREDDY’S
BEETLEJUICE
I BELIEVE IN UNICORNS
AS YOU ARE
FALL
ORPHAN
Dustin blinked.
“…Okay.”
Eleven reached in slowly, lifting one between her hands. She turned it over, studying it. No studio logo. No runtime. No cover art. Just the title.
Plain.
Intentional.
Waiting.
“They’re not from the store,” Dustin said immediately. “They’d have stickers. Inventory numbers.”
He picked up another, frowning deeper.
“Who just… leaves tapes like this?”
Eleven’s eyes flicked toward him.
She didn’t answer.
Because she didn’t need to.
They both knew.
This town didn’t have coincidences anymore.
—
Steve almost didn’t answer the door.
He was halfway through complaining about Keith scheduling him another closing shift when Dustin started pounding like the house was on fire.
“STEVE!”
The door flew open.
“What?” Steve snapped, hair half-styled, annoyance written across his face. “Is someone dying? Because unless someone is actively dying—”
Dustin shoved the box into his chest.
Steve stumbled, catching it on instinct.
“…What is this?”
“Movie night,” Dustin said.
Steve stared at him.
Then at Eleven, who stood beside him, silent and serious.
Then back at the box.
“…Why do I suddenly feel like I don’t want to open it.”
“Because,” Dustin said grimly, “you have survival instincts.”
Steve hesitated.
Then, slowly, he lifted the lid.
He saw the titles.
His expression changed immediately.
Not confusion.
Recognition.
Not all of them.
But enough.
His fingers hovered over one tape.
THE BLACK PHONE
A strange, sharp pressure formed behind his ribs. Sudden. Unwelcome.
He didn’t know why. But he did at the same time.
He dropped the lid shut.
“Nope.”
Dustin blinked. “Nope?”
“Nope,” Steve repeated. “Absolutely not. I don’t know what this is, but I hate it.”
Behind them, Mike and Lucas were already climbing the steps toward the porch, arguing about popcorn. Max followed slower, hands shoved in her jacket pockets. Will and Jonathan trailed behind. Nancy and Robin were arguing about whether Steve owned any actual food.
Hopper’s truck rumbled somewhere down the street.
The night felt normal.
Too normal.
Steve looked down at the box again.
It felt heavier now.
Like it knew he was holding it.
“…We’re watching them,” Dustin said quietly.
Steve exhaled.
He already knew they would.
Because that’s how it always worked.
Things showed up.
And nothing good ever followed.
Steve was still staring at the box when Dustin cleared his throat behind him.
“…So,” Dustin said carefully.
Steve didn’t look up. “No.”
“I didn’t even say anything yet.”
“You were about to say something stupid. I can hear it in your breathing.”
“I don’t breathe stupidly.”
Steve finally turned, arms folded tight across his chest, the box of tapes sitting heavily on the kitchen counter between them. The overhead light buzzed faintly, casting everything in that dull yellow glow that made the whole situation feel even worse.
Mike and Lucas were already digging through Steve’s cabinets like they lived there. Max leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching everything with that quiet, skeptical look she always wore. Eleven stayed close to the tapes, her fingers resting lightly on the cardboard as if she could feel something inside it.
Dustin rocked back on his heels.
“…I invited someone.”
Steve went still.
“Dustin,” he said slowly, “if you invited Keith into my house—”
“It’s not Keith,” Dustin said quickly, horrified.
Steve waited.
Dustin winced.
“…It’s Eddie.”
Silence.
Not confused silence.
The kind of silence where Steve Harrington’s brain very clearly stopped processing information entirely.
“…What.”
Dustin gestured vaguely toward the door. “He’s cool.”
“Cool,” Steve repeated flatly.
“Yeah.”
“The guy who failed senior year twice.”
“Three times,” Dustin corrected automatically.
Steve stared at him.
“Not helping your case.”
“He’s in Hellfire,” Dustin added, like that explained anything.
Steve blinked. “…That weird Dungeons & Dragons cult?”
“It’s not a cult.”
“Dustin, you literally light candles.”
“For ambiance.”
Steve dragged a hand down his face.
“No. Absolutely not. No Munsons in my house. That was not part of the agreement.”
“We never had an agreement.”
“It was implied.”
Right on cue—
Knock. Knock.
Not hesitant.
Not polite.
Confident.
Steve froze.
Dustin perked up immediately.
“Oh, that’s him.”
Steve pointed at the door. “Do not.”
Dustin was already moving.
“Dustin Henderson,” Steve hissed, following him into the entryway, “if you open that door—”
The door swung open.
And there he was.
Eddie Munson leaned casually against the doorframe like he owned the place, denim vest, chains, wild hair barely contained. He glanced past Dustin, eyes landing immediately on Steve.
Recognition sparked instantly.
Not friendly recognition.
Not nostalgic.
The kind built on years of shared hallways and opposite ends of the social food chain.
Eddie’s mouth curled faintly.
“Well, well,” he said. “King Steve.”
Steve stared back.
God, he hadn’t seen him this close since graduation.
Since lockers slammed shut when Eddie walked past. Since whispers. Since avoiding eye contact was easier than acknowledging him at all.
“Munson,” Steve said flatly.
Dustin looked between them, confused. “You guys know each other?”
Neither answered.
Eddie stepped inside anyway.
Slow. Casual. Uninvited.
His eyes swept the room, taking in Mike, Lucas, Max, Will, Jonathan, Nancy, Robin—
—and then the box on the counter.
He stopped.
Something in his posture shifted.
“…What’s that?”
Steve followed his gaze.
The tapes sat exactly where he’d left them.
Waiting.
Dustin brightened. “That’s why you’re here.”
Steve closed his eyes briefly.
Of course it was.
Of course Dustin had invited Eddie Munson into this mess.
Because apparently Steve Harrington’s life wasn’t complicated enough already.
Behind them, Eleven spoke quietly.
“They want us to watch.”
No one asked how she knew.
No one wanted to.
The room felt smaller suddenly.
Colder.
Eddie didn’t laugh.
Didn’t joke.
He just stared at the tapes like he understood something none of them did yet.
“…Yeah,” he murmured. “…I figured.”
Steve picked up and carried the box like it might bite him.
No one said that out loud, but everyone noticed the way he held it—arms stiff, careful, like sudden movement might make whatever was inside wake up.
They crowded into the living room out of habit more than agreement. It was where they always ended up. The couch sagged in the middle, worn from years of use, and the coffee table still had faint water rings from drinks Steve never bothered to use coasters for.
Robin dropped onto the couch first, immediately stealing the armrest and kicking her shoes halfway off. Steve sat beside her a second later, elbows on his knees, eyes never leaving the box as he set it down on the table.
Nancy and Jonathan stayed close together near the far end, their shoulders brushing. Jonathan leaned back into the cushions, camera absent for once, fingers tapping lightly against his thigh like he wasn’t aware he was doing it. Nancy sat upright beside him, alert, studying everything.
Joyce hovered for a moment before sitting next to Hopper, her hand unconsciously resting against his arm like she needed the contact. Hopper leaned forward, forearms braced on his knees, jaw tight beneath his mustache.
On the floor, Dustin dropped cross-legged in front of the TV, already halfway to the VCR. Lucas sat beside him, while Max stayed standing for a moment before lowering herself onto the carpet near the coffee table, arms wrapped loosely around her knees.
Eleven stayed close to her.
She sat beside Max without speaking, her shoulder barely touching hers. Mike settled on Eleven’s other side almost automatically, his knee bumping hers.
Will hovered behind them before slipping down onto the floor too, quiet as ever.
Eddie lingered the longest.
He stood near the back of the room, arms folded, eyes flicking from person to person before settling on the box again.
“…So,” Robin said, forcing brightness into her voice, “this is normal.”
No one laughed.
Dustin reached forward, flipping open the lid.
The tapes stared back at them.
Silent.
Waiting.
He hesitated for only a second.
Then he reached in blindly.
“Random selection,” he declared. “Scientific method.”
Steve inhaled slowly through his nose.
Dustin pulled one out.
Turned it over.
His grin faltered.
He read the label aloud.
“…The Black Phone.”
The room stilled.
Steve froze beside Robin.
Not dramatically.
Not obviously.
Just enough that Robin noticed immediately.
She glanced at him. “You good?”
Steve didn’t answer right away.
His eyes stayed locked on the tape in Dustin’s hand.
“Yeah,” he said finally.
Too fast.
Dustin stood, already crouching in front of the VCR.
“Only one way to find out what’s on it.”
“Dustin—” Mike started.
The tape slid into the machine with a heavy, mechanical click.
Everyone heard it.
The TV screen flickered to life, filling the room with soft static.
No one spoke.
Steve leaned back slightly, Robin’s shoulder pressing against his. He didn’t move away.
Eleven’s fingers curled lightly into the carpet beside Max.
Hopper’s jaw tightened.
Joyce held her breath without realizing it.
Eddie stared at the screen like he was waiting for it to stare back.
The static crackled.
Then—
(grand orchestral fanfare plays)
Dustin jerked back from where he’d been sitting cross-legged on the floor, palms slapping the carpet behind him to steady himself. His eyes went wide behind his curls.
“Holy shit.”
He leaned forward again almost immediately, squinting at the television like it might suddenly explain itself.
Mike pushed himself up from the couch without thinking, drawn closer. “What’s up with the quality?”
The image on the screen was crisp. Too crisp. Not grainy like an old tape. Not flickering like something recorded years ago.
Mike let out a breathless laugh, half disbelief, half awe. “Holy fuck, it’s clear. Like… really clear.”
He took another step forward, stopping just short of the TV, like he could fall into it if he got any closer.
Eleven tilted her head slightly, watching with quiet focus. “Like we are there,” she said softly.
Mike nodded immediately, eyes still locked on the screen. “Exactly. This is insane.”
Dustin swallowed, the excitement in his chest mixing with something colder—something he couldn’t name yet.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “…insane.”
(birds chirp)
(indistinct shouting)
(bat cracks against ball)
(cheering)
NORTH DENVER, 1979.
Steve’s pulse stumbled, then slammed hard enough he could feel it in his throat.
The sound of the game faded behind the words, like everything else had suddenly stopped mattering.
North Denver.
Not Hawkins. Not Indiana. Somewhere else. Somewhere real. Somewhere specific.
He leaned forward without realizing it, eyes narrowing, searching the screen for something familiar—anything that might explain why they were seeing this.
A chill crept up his spine.
“This isn’t just a tape,” he said quietly.
Dustin whipped around to face him. “Uh, yeah,” he said, gesturing broadly at the television. “That’s exactly what this is.” His tone edged toward exasperation, like Steve was missing something obvious.
Steve shook his head slowly. “No,” he said under his breath. “It’s not.”
Nancy turned toward him immediately, brows knitting. “What are you talking about?”
Steve didn’t answer right away. His hand dragged down his face, fingers pressing hard over his mouth, like he was trying to steady himself.
“It’s…” He exhaled sharply. “Jesus Christ.”
Joyce’s expression softened, concern overtaking confusion. She stepped a little closer without thinking, voice gentle. “What’s wrong?”
Steve didn’t look at her. His eyes stayed locked on the frozen image of the baseball field—bright, alive, like it was happening right now instead of decades ago.
“Hang on,” he said quietly, lifting a hand toward the screen.
Dustin hesitated, glancing between Steve and the paused frame. He hadn’t even realized he’d hit pause.
“…Dude?”
Steve didn’t explain.
After a second, Dustin let out a small, impatient huff and hit play.
MAN (O.S.)
Come on! You can do it! Get into second!
More chatter rolls through the stands.
MAN (O.S.)
Come on, guys! You’re giving this game away!
Pick it up!
In the bleachers, GWEN leans forward, hands cupped around her mouth.
GWEN
Come on, Finney. Come on.
On the field, FINNEY digs his cleats into the dirt and sets his stance. Across from him, the BATTER—BRUCE—wears a cocky, challenging grin.
“Pause it,” Steve said suddenly.
Dustin fumbled with the remote, nearly dropping it before the image froze—centered perfectly on the pitcher’s face.
Steve’s face.
Nancy leaned forward slightly, squinting. “Huh,” she murmured. “He looks…”
“Familiar,” Jonathan finished quietly.
Steve swallowed.
“Yeah,” he said hoarsely. “Because he’s in the room.”
Everyone turned toward him.
Steve forced himself to look at it again—the hair, longer. The shoulders, thinner. Younger.
“That’s me.”
Silence.
Eddie blinked. “What?” He pushed himself upright. “How the fuck is that possible?”
Mike stared between Steve and the television, his mouth slightly open. “That’s insane,” he whispered. “This is literally insane.”
Nancy shook her head slowly, like if she denied it hard enough it would stop being true. “That’s not possible. How is that possible?”
“I don’t fucking know,” Steve snapped, louder than he meant to.
He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand over his mouth. “…Sorry. I just—holy shit.”
He couldn’t look at it anymore. Couldn’t look at himself standing on that field like nothing was wrong. Like nothing was coming.
Eleven tilted her head slightly, still watching the frozen frame.
“Where is North Denver?” she asked softly.
Steve opened his mouth—
“Colorado,” Hopper said first, voice heavier than usual. “I’ve got family up there. My sister.”
Steve’s stomach dropped.
He turned slowly, staring at Hopper like he was seeing him for the first time.
“…Hopper.”
Jim frowned faintly. “Yeah?”
Steve pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes.
“Vance Hopper,” he said quietly. “Fuck.”
The room went still.
Hopper’s expression shifted—not confusion. Recognition. Fear.
“My nephew,” he said carefully. “You knew him?”
Steve nodded once, throat tight.
“Yeah,” he said. “Everyone did.”
“Wait, wait, wait.” Eddie held up both hands, eyes darting between Steve and the frozen television. “When the hell were you in Colorado?”
Steve didn’t answer right away.
He scanned the room instead—Dustin’s confusion, Nancy’s sharp focus, Jonathan’s quiet concern, Mike’s disbelief, Eleven’s calm curiosity, Hopper’s guarded stillness, Joyce’s soft, worried eyes. Max’s quiet curiosity, mixed with Lucas’ not so loud. Robin’s impatience hiding behind a wall of politeness for her best friend.
He couldn’t avoid it anymore.
Steve exhaled slowly.
“…Before,” he said.
“That doesn’t answer the question,” Nancy said gently.
Steve nodded once, jaw tight.
“I wasn’t born here,” he admitted.
That alone made Dustin straighten.
“I was born in North Denver.”
The words sounded wrong out loud. Like they belonged to someone else.
“My name wasn’t Steve Harrington.”
Silence fell heavier this time.
Steve swallowed.
“It was Finney Blake.”
No one spoke.
Not even Dustin.
Steve stared past them, past the walls, seeing something else entirely.
“I had a sister,” he continued quietly. “Gwen. And my dad.”
His fingers curled slightly, like he could still feel the shape of that life.
“…Something happened.”
He hesitated. The memory sat there—sharp, unfinished.
“The police came to the house,” he said finally. “They found her journals.”
Nancy frowned slightly. “Journals?”
Steve nodded once.
“She wrote everything down. What he did. All of it.” He was vague, not saying what it was, but they could guess.
Joyce’s hand lifted slightly, instinctively, like she wanted to reach out—but she didn’t.
“They took us,” Steve said. “Separated us.”
His voice dropped.
“I never saw him again.”
Or Gwen.
He forced himself to look back at the screen.
At the boy he used to be.
“They changed my name,” he said. “Adopted me out. New state. New everything.”
He let out a hollow breath.
“…I was thirteen.”
No one moved.
Until Dustin unpaused the screen.
BOY (O.S.)
Let’s go. You got this.
GWEN (O.S.)
You got this, Finney!
Finney inhales, then fires.
Bruce swings late—WHIFFS.
“Wait,” Lucas said, frowning slightly. “I thought you did basketball.”
Steve nodded faintly, eyes still fixed on the frozen version of himself on the screen. “Yeah. In Hawkins.”
He hesitated, shoulders tightening.
“I used to love baseball,” he admitted quietly. “It was like… my favorite thing.”
The words felt strange in his mouth. Distant. Like they belonged to someone else.
“But after I moved, I stopped.” He swallowed. “Basketball just kinda… happened. I was taller than everyone else, coaches noticed, and I just kept playing.”
He shrugged faintly, like it hadn’t mattered.
Like it hadn’t been something he’d lost.
Dustin leaned forward a little, studying both Steves—the one beside him, and the one frozen mid-pitch.
“Huh,” he murmured. “No wonder you’re good with that bat.”
Steve let out a quiet breath through his nose, something between a laugh and nothing at all.
UMPIRE
Strike!
Gwen pops up, fist pumping.
GWEN
Yes, Finney! Nice, Finney!
BOY (O.S.)
Two more strikes, Finney!
Another kid starts the chant, half-taunting, half-hyping.
BOY (O.S.)
Swing, batter-batter. Swing, batter-batter—
Finney winds up again and throws hard.
UMPIRE
Strike two!
The crowd ROARS. Gwen beams, swallowed by the noise. Finney’s eyes flick to the bleachers—find her for a split second—then snap back to Bruce.
Some of the kids in the room cheered automatically, caught up in the momentum of it. Dustin even pumped his fist once before remembering himself, the motion faltering halfway through.
Joyce smiled softly at the sound, at the normalcy of it. The warmth of a summer game. Kids cheering for each other. A brother glancing toward his sister in the stands like he always knew she’d be there.
Her chest tightened.
Her eyes drifted briefly to Dustin.
To the television.
To Steve.
She wondered—just for a moment—what would have happened if Dustin had found a different tape. One buried deeper. One older. One with a name she had spent years forcing herself to forget.
A name she would never say out loud again.
Not now.
Not ever.
MAN (O.S.)
Eyes open out there. Eyes open!
Finney waits. Focused. He throws.
This time, Bruce CONNECTS.
The bat CRACKS like a gunshot. The ball sails—high, clean, and unstoppable.
“That’s bullshit!” Mike blurted, the words flying out before he could stop them.
Everyone turned to look at him.
Even Steve.
Mike froze, heat rushing straight to his face, his mouth still half open. He hadn’t meant to say that. He hadn’t meant to care.
“What?” he said quickly, shrugging too hard. “I’m—competitive.”
Dustin raised an eyebrow slowly. “It’s a prerecorded baseball game from 1979.”
Mike scowled, crossing his arms like that somehow made it better. “Doesn’t mean I can’t root for him.”
He didn’t look at Steve when he said it.
But Steve noticed anyway.
Gwen’s face falls.
GWEN
Oh, no. Oh, no—
A fielder sprints for the fence, desperate, but the ball keeps carrying—
Over.
“Okay, that was actually kinda cool,” Dustin admitted, leaning forward. “He launched that thing.”
Steve let out a quiet chuckle, almost automatic, nodding once. “Yeah,” he said. “Bruce was… great.”
The words lingered longer than he meant them to.
For a split second, a thought surfaced—uninvited, painful in its simplicity.
Would he have gone pro?
Steve swallowed and forced himself to look back at the screen, at Bruce jogging the bases like he had all the time in the world.
Max tilted her head slightly. “Jeez, if he was that good then,” she said casually, “he’s probably insane now.”
Steve’s breath caught.
He didn’t react right away.
“…Yeah,” he said finally.
But the smile on his face didn’t reach his eyes.
Eleven tilted her head slightly, eyes narrowing in concentration. “What does that mean?” she asked. “Arm is mint?”
Steve hesitated, the memory of Bruce’s voice hitting harder than he expected. He forced himself to answer anyway.
“It means… really good,” he said. “Like, top quality.”
He gestured vaguely, searching for an example. “Like… uh…”
His eyes landed on Jonathan.
“…Jonathan’s camera is mint.”
The second the words left his mouth, Steve grimaced.
Robin didn’t even look up from where she was sprawled on the floor. “Ugh. Never say that again.”
A few quiet snickers rippled through the room.
Eleven nodded seriously, committing it to memory.
“Mike is mint,” she said.
Mike choked on air. “What—”
Dustin immediately lost it. “Oh my God.”
Robin sat up, pointing. “No, no, this is happening now. This is your legacy, Harrington.”
Steve dragged a hand down his face. “I hate all of you.”
FINNEY
Good game.
BRUCE
Good game.
The two boys split off toward their separate dugouts.
“Free Ride” by The Edgar Winter Group begins to play.
Eleven tilted her head slightly as the steady rhythm filled the room, softer than everything that had come before.
“Nice song,” she said gently.
Dustin nodded immediately. “Yeah, it’s classic. My mom listens to this stuff when she cleans.”
Mike didn’t respond. His eyes stayed glued to the screen.
Steve, however, had gone still again.
“…They used to play this all the time,” he murmured, almost to himself.
Robin glanced up at him. “In Hawkins?”
Steve shook his head faintly.
“In Colorado.”
Bruce rides his bike down the quiet neighborhood street, now in casual clothes. He smiles easily, relaxed.
He passes a MAILMAN delivering envelopes.
BRUCE
Hey.
The mailman nods back.
♪ The mountain is high ♪
Two GIRLS walk along the sidewalk.
GIRLS
Hi, Bruce.
Joyce watched the easy interaction, the casual familiarity in it. She smiled faintly.
“He seems like a really sweet boy,” she said softly. “Popular, too.”
Steve shifted his weight, arms crossing loosely over his chest as he watched Bruce pedal past them like nothing in the world could touch him.
“Yeah,” he said after a moment. “Kind of.”
He hesitated.
“Everyone knew Bruce. It was a small place. But…” he exhaled quietly, eyes fixed on the screen, “no one ever had anything bad to say about him.”
He didn’t add the rest.
No one thought he’d just disappear, either.
♪ The valley is low ♪
Bruce nods slightly as he rides past.
♪ And you're confused on which way to go ♪
Robin leaned back on her elbows, listening for a second before nodding approvingly.
“We should add this to the rotation at Family Video,” she said. “Break up the endless cycle of Madonna and whatever Keith thinks is ‘hip.’”
Steve blinked, dragged out of the screen and back into the room.
“Oh—uh, yeah,” he said. “Sure.”
He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly.
“I think I’ve got the tape somewhere,” he added.
He glances back over his shoulder at them for a moment.
Behind him, the girls giggle.
♪ So, I've come here to give you a hand ♪
A MODEL ROCKET stands upright in the dirt.
Finney kneels beside it in casual clothes, holding a remote. A loose wire hangs from his hand.
Dustin leaned forward suddenly, eyes widening in alarm. “Steve—what are you doing with that?” he blurted. “That thing’s gonna explode. Please tell me you put it down before you blew your hand off or something.”
Steve turned toward him slowly, eyebrows lifting in mock offense. “Excuse me,” he said flatly. “That’s my rocket.”
Dustin froze. “Your—”
Will’s head snapped toward him before he could stop himself. “Yours?” he asked quietly.
Steve let out a short, breathy laugh through his nose.
Will winced slightly. “Sorry, it’s just… you.”
“Are an idiot?” Steve finished for him.
A couple of the others shifted awkwardly.
Steve shrugged one shoulder, eyes drifting back to the screen—to the boy kneeling carefully in the dirt, focused, patient.
“Well,” he added lightly, “this was before the endless concussions from saving you twerps.”
Robin snorted softly. Dustin didn’t laugh.
He was still watching the rocket.
♪ And lead you into the promised land, so ♪
He connects the wire carefully, eyes locked on the rocket.
♪ Come on and take a free ride ♪
He presses the button.
The rocket SHOOTS into the air.
♪ Come on and sit here by my side ♪
Finney stands quickly, watching it climb higher and higher.
A wide smile spreads across his face.
“That was awesome,” Lucas said, unable to hide the awe in his voice.
Dustin nodded aggressively from his spot on the floor, eyes glued to the screen like he was memorizing every detail. “That was awesome,” he echoed, quieter—but more serious.
He twisted around to face Steve suddenly. “Can you show me how you built that?”
Steve blinked. “What?”
“The rocket,” Dustin clarified impatiently. “I could probably modify it. Get more altitude, stabilize the fins, maybe reinforce the body so it doesn’t—” he gestured vaguely, “—explode.”
He leaned forward again, already invested. “And make it less flammable.”
Steve let out a small laugh, shaking his head. “It wasn’t supposed to be flammable.”
Dustin pointed at the screen. “That thing looked like it was held together with hope and electrical tape.”
Steve shrugged faintly. “It worked.”
Dustin grinned. “It did.”
♪ Come on and take a free ride ♪
Bruce continues riding his bike toward home.
An EXPLOSIVE POP echoes faintly overhead.
He slows, looking up.
High above, the rocket’s parachute blossoms open, drifting gently downward.
“See?” Steve said under his breath, a small hint of pride slipping through. “It didn’t blow up.”
Dustin didn’t even look at him. “Shh.”
Steve huffed softly through his nose, but didn’t argue.
His attention had already drifted back to Bruce.
He watched the way Bruce slowed his bike, tilting his head up toward the sky. Watched the faint laugh, the easy shake of his head before he kept riding.
Steve’s chest tightened.
He hadn’t known Bruce saw it.
Hadn’t known he’d been there at all.
For a moment, he wondered if Bruce had known it was his. If he’d recognized the rocket. If he’d thought it was cool—or stupid—or nothing at all.
He wondered if Bruce had thought about it again.
Steve swallowed, eyes fixed on the screen.
He never got the chance to ask.
Bruce lets out a small laugh, shaking his head as he keeps riding.
The music begins to fade.
Ahead of him, a BLACK VAN slowly turns the corner.
The word ABRACADABRA is painted along its side.
Steve’s stomach dropped so fast it made him dizzy.
He knew that street.
He knew that corner.
He’d walked it a hundred times—cut through it on the way home, ridden his bike past it, stood just blocks away launching that stupid rocket like nothing in the world could touch them.
He’d been close.
Too close.
Maybe ten minutes. Less, if he ran.
His throat tightened.
Robin leaned forward slightly, squinting at the painted letters.
“Well,” she said dryly, “that’s not ominous at all.”
No one laughed.
Steve couldn’t take his eyes off it.
The van looked normal.
Ordinary.
Like it belonged there.
And that was the worst part.
Bruce’s smile fades.
The van rolls closer.
Slower.
Then stops.
“Was he… getting a ride?” Mike asked uncertainly, leaning forward.
Will shook his head immediately, eyes fixed on Bruce’s frozen figure. “He had a bike.”
Mike frowned. “Yeah, but he stopped biking.”
Max didn’t look away from the screen. “Because there’s a huge van in front of him,” she said flatly.
No one argued with her.
The room felt smaller suddenly.
Steve’s fingers curled slowly at his sides, his pulse loud in his ears.
He knew what happened next.
The screen flickers back to life.
A CITY LANDSCAPE appears.
Okay, maybe he didn’t know.
Quick cuts—
Telephone poles stretching endlessly into the sky.
A crowded highway, cars rushing past in both directions.
A small overpass bridge, traffic humming beneath it.
An ice-cream truck rolls slowly down a neighborhood street, its music faint.
A telephone pole plastered with paper.
A CLOSE-UP — MISSING POSTER. A boy’s smiling face stares back.
A SCHOOL BUS hisses to a stop, children spilling out.
Kids run down sidewalks.
A skateboard clatters over cracked pavement.
A boy stumbles, scraping his knee. He winces, wiping away blood.
Another boy wraps gauze tightly around bruised, split knuckles.
“Welcome to North Denver,” Steve said quietly.
There was no pride in it. Just fact.
His eyes lingered on the boy’s hands—the split skin, the careful wrapping, the way he tightened the gauze like he was used to it.
A sharp, unwelcome thought surfaced.
Robin.
Not here. Not yet. But close. Too close.
It lodged in his chest anyway.
“Looks normal,” Lucas said, studying the screen. “Well… except for the missing poster.”
Joyce’s breath caught.
She’d hoped she’d imagined it. Just a background detail. Something easy to ignore.
But now that it had been said out loud, she couldn’t unsee it.
Her hand curled tighter in her sleeve. Will.
A tear slides silently down a child’s cheek.
More missing posters.
“Jesus,” Jonathan muttered under his breath.
His eyes tracked each one as it flashed past—faces, names, dates. Boys. All boys.
Without realizing it, he turned slightly toward Will.
Will noticed.
“How many?” he asked quietly.
Steve didn’t answer right away.
His jaw tightened as another poster flickered across the screen.
“…A lot,” he said finally.
He didn’t look at any of them when he said it.
On poles.
On fences.
On the ground, trampled.
Black balloons sway, tangled in telephone wires.
A car drives past a simple one-story house in a quiet neighborhood.
Inside—
Steve winced, bracing himself.
Beer bottles crowd the kitchen counter beside an open box of cornflakes.
A man stands at the counter, pouring coffee into a mug.
He turns and walks toward the table.
FINNEY sits there, small and quiet, picking at a bowl of cereal.
Nancy sucked in a quiet breath.
“That can’t be healthy,” she whispered, eyes flicking over the cluttered counter, the beer bottles, the silence that hung too heavy for morning.
Steve didn’t react.
Didn’t move.
Didn’t breathe.
His eyes stayed fixed on the boy at the table—on the way his shoulders curved inward, on the way he barely touched the food in front of him.
He knew exactly how it tasted.
He knew exactly how it felt to sit there.
He forced his jaw to stay shut.
The man—TERRENCE—lowers himself into the chair across from him, newspaper in hand.
Finney slurps softly.
Jonathan’s shoulders tensed almost immediately.
Too loud.
He knew that sound. Knew the way a room could turn on something that small. Knew how hangovers sharpened everything into irritation and blame.
Not to mention when his dad guilt tripped him into staying with him that one time…
He shook the thought from his head. It was over. Done with. It didn’t matter anymore. He didn’t matter anymore. Nancy did.
Terrence slowly lowers the paper, revealing his face. His eyes fix on Finney.
TERRENCE
You think you can slurp that a little louder?
I don’t think they can hear you up in Boulder.
Finney’s eyes drop immediately to his bowl.
Behind him, GWEN enters the kitchen.
She walks to the bread box and lifts the lid—
SLAM.
Joyce flinched instinctively, shoulders tightening as the sound echoed through the room.
Her hand lifted slightly, like she could stop what was coming next.
“Oh no…” she whispered.
She wasn’t looking at the bread box.
She was looking at Steve, who was looking anywhere but at the screen.
The sound echoes.
Finney flinches, eyes snapping up.
Terrence groans softly, irritated.
Gwen squeezes her eyes shut, fists tightening at her sides.
She turns toward him.
GWEN
Sorry, Daddy.
Silence.
Finney glances between them, worry settling in his expression.
Terrence says nothing, lifting the newspaper again.
Gwen slowly reaches into the bread box.
Finney watches her.
She catches his eye—and makes a small, exaggerated face.
Finney exhales, the corner of his mouth lifting despite himself.
Just for a second.
No one spoke.
The room had gone completely still, like even breathing too loud might disturb something fragile on the screen.
Robin realized she’d been holding her breath.
It was ridiculous. It was just a tape. Just a memory.
But it didn’t feel like one.
It felt like they were there.
Beside him.
Mike shifted uncomfortably, jaw tightening as he watched Terrence disappear behind the newspaper again.
“He sucks,” he muttered.