Chapter Text
“A shadow grows on the wall behind you,” Mike began, slow and deliberate, eyes flicking between his friends to make sure he had their attention. “Swallowing you in darkness. It is almost here…”
Mike leaned forward in his chair, his elbows on the table, his fingers curled around the edge of his Dungeon Master screen. The cardboard was worn from use, edges fraying where he’d bent it too many times. His voice dropped instinctively, the way it always did when the game reached this point. This was the part he liked best, the moment where the room quieted without him asking, where the story took hold and didn’t let go. Where he had his friend's full attention, hanging off every word.
Will sat cross-legged on his chair, character sheet balanced on his knee and a pencil tucked behind his ear. He watched Mike more than the map, eyes bright. Lucas was all but kneeling on his own chair, hands pressed against the table, ready to react. Dustin slouched beside him, pencil scribbling across his yellow pad, ever the note-taker.
Will swallowed, his body swaying subtly. “What is it?”
“What if it’s the Demogorgon?” Dustin said, his voice high with anticipation. He shook his head, his curls swaying under his cap. “We’re in deep shit if it’s the Demogorgon.”
Lucas rolled his eyes, but there was a tension in his jaw. “It’s not the Demogorgon.”
“How would you know?” Dustin shot back, tapping his pencil against the page covered in cramped notes and stick figure drawings. “Remember our last campaign when you said there was no way the undead army was waiting and then-”
An amused smile spread across Mike’s face as he watched them argue, the rhythm of it as comforting as it was annoying. This was part of the game too, the arguing and the panic, the confidence that cracked under pressure. He reached behind the screen, fingers closing around the troglodyte figurines. “An army of troglodytes charge into the chamber!” Mike exclaimed, slamming the six figurines into the center of the map. The table rattled, die jumping in place. The boys flinched into attention. “Their tails drum against the stone floor. Boom. Boom. Boom!” He smacked his palm against the table in time with the sound, each hit shaking the table legs.
“Told you,” Lucas said, sticking his tongue out at Dustin. Dustin flipped him off without looking, eyes fixed on the board with wide eyes.
“Wait,” Mike said suddenly, holding up a hand. His grin vanished. He glanced over his shoulder, toward the corner of the basement where the light didn’t quite reach. “Do you hear that?” His hand struck the table again, slower this time. “That noise,” he continued, dragging the moment out, “it isn’t coming from the troglodytes…” Another pause. “It came from something else.”
Will’s fingers tightened around the edge of the table, his knuckles white. “Something else?”
Mike nodded solemnly. “Something bigger.” He fought off a grin as he slammed another figure onto the map. “The Demogorgon!”
The chairs creaked as the boys leaned in or recoiled. Dustin grabbed his hat with both hands, staring at the figurine as if one of its heads might turn toward him. “We’re in deep shit...”
“Will, your action!” Mike said, voice sharp now.
Will’s eyes flicked between Mike and the Demogorgon. “I-I don’t know...”
“Fireball him!” Lucas urged, leaning almost on top of the table now.
“But I’d have to roll a thirteen or higher!”
“Too risky. Cast a protection spell,” Dustin cut in, pencil slipping from his sweaty fingers and hitting the table.
Lucas scoffed, throwing his hands up. “What? Don’t be a pussy. Fireball him!”
“Don’t listen to him!” Dustin said to Will, whose breathing had gone shallow. “Cast a protection-”
“The Demogorgon is tired of your silly human bickering!” Mike interrupted, pushing the figurine closer to Will’s character. “It stomps toward you. Boom!” His palm struck the table, and the sound made Will flinch. The Demogorgon loomed over the map now, its many heads casting shadows across the grid. Mike nudged it forward another square just to see Will's breath hitch.
Will stared at the board, moving the die between his hands. “I-I don’t know what to do.”
“Fireball,” Lucas said immediately, leaning forward with bright eyes. “It’s your best shot.”
“But if he misses?” Dustin cut in, already half out of his seat. “Protection spell. You buy yourself time. You have to buy yourself time.”
“It’s a waste!” Lucas snapped. “You don’t beat the Demogorgon by hiding.”
“I’m not saying hide, I’m saying don’t be stupid!” Dustin gestured wildly at the board. “You roll low, you’re dead. He’s dead. We’re all dead!”
Mike watched Will carefully, letting the argument run its course. He could see the hesitation all over his face, the way his thumb rubbed nervously along the edge of the die. Mike couldn't help but feel a little bad about putting Will on the spot like this, but the excitement of the game made everything else background noise.
Will swallowed and sat up properly. His shoulders straightened just a little, like he’d made peace with something. “I cast fireball.”
“Yes!” Lucas cheered.
Dustin groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Oh my god. Oh my god, we’re all gonna die...”
Will pulled his arm back and threw the die. It hit the table once, bounced toward the edge… and then flew off.
For a split second, no one moved. Then the room was filled with the overlapping voices of panicking twelve year olds.
“Where’d it go?” Lucas said, already dropping to his knees to sweep an arm under the table.
“Check under the couch!” Dustin said, panic creeping into his voice as he paced. “This is really bad. If that roll was low-”
“I don’t see it,” Will said, crouching down, his heart racing as he looked under the table with Lucas. “I don’t see it anywhere.”
Mike stood, chair scraping loudly against the floor as he leaned over the table-
The basement door creaked open. “Michael,” Karen Wheeler’s voice came down the stairs, calm but unmistakably final. “It’s about time to wrap this up.”
Mike straightened, turning toward her voice with wide eyes. “Mom, wait-we just-”
She shook her head, eyes sweeping over the scattered papers and the pizza box on the floor. “You have school tomorrow. You need to start packing up.”
“But we’re in the middle of it!” Mike protested, following her up the stairs as she turned. “Just give me a few more minutes.”
Karen paused at the top step, then continued into the kitchen. “No. It’s a school night. You can finish next weekend.”
“That’ll ruin the flow,” Mike said, trailing after her, frustration bubbling up and over. “You can’t just stop in the middle of a campaign!”
She set a Tupperware on the counter, scooping leftover potatoes and chicken into it with practiced ease. “No arguing. You know the rules.”
“But I’ve been planning this for weeks,” Mike argued, voice cracking on the last word. “I didn’t know it was going to take ten hours.”
Karen stopped mid-scoop and turned to look at him, her eyes widening in disbelief. “You’ve been playing for ten hours?”
Mike groaned, dropping his head back against a cabinet. Karen snapped the lid shut, giving him a look. “Goodnight, Michael.”
He lingered for a moment longer, then sighed and headed for the garage. The cool night air hit him as he stepped out, the overhead light casting long shadows across the driveway. The shift was jarring after the basement. It felt wrong to just be done after the excitement of the night.
Lucas was already wheeling his bike toward the driveway, restless energy still buzzing through him. Will followed more slowly, zipping up his puffer vest.
Mike huffed under his breath, arms crossed, watching them with a scowl he couldn’t shake. He told himself it was because his mom had cut them off mid-campaign, but that wasn’t all of it. The basement suddenly felt too far away, and something about the way the night was ending left him restless and off-balance.
Dustin finally wandered in last, looking unbothered, chewing on the final slice of cold pizza from the box they’d ordered hours ago. “There’s something wrong with your sister,” he said casually.
Mike frowned, dragging his attention back to the driveway. “What?”
“She’s got a stick up her butt,” Dustin clarified, swallowing the bite.
Lucas snorted as he climbed onto his bike. “It’s because she’s dating that douchebag Steve Harrington.”
Dustin nodded gravely. “She’s turning into a jerk.”
Mike rolled his eyes. He felt a flicker of irritation he didn’t bother unpacking, something that was part annoyance, part defensiveness. “She’s always been a jerk.”
“No,” Dustin said, pointing the crust at him. “She used to be cool. Remember when she dressed up as an elf for our Eldertree campaign?”
“That was four years ago,” Mike said flatly. It felt farther away than that. Sometimes it feels like they didn't even share the same roof, let alone the same parents and last name.
Dustin shrugged. “Still.”
Lucas pushed off first, tires crunching softly as he rode down the driveway, already halfway gone. Dustin followed, tossing the empty crust into the bin outside without looking.
The sudden absence of their voices left the driveway remarkably empty. The chaotic noise of the basement felt like it had belonged to a completely different night. Up here, there was only the low hum of the streetlamps and the sharp bite of the November air.
Will lingered, his fingers squeezing the handlebars. Mike noticed it immediately, even before Will wheeled his bike closer. He always did that, hung back like there was one more thing he needed to check. A trait inherited from his mother, Mike thought
Mike crossed his arms against the chill, his scowl softening just a fraction, though the irritation in his chest didn't quite fade. He watched the way Will’s breath came out in faint, ghostly circles between them, vanishing into the porch light.
For a long moment, neither of them said anything. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable, but it felt heavy with the leftover energy of a ten-hour story. Will’s eyes were fixed on the concrete, tracing a crack in the driveway when he finally spoke. “It was a seven.”
Mike blinked, the words catching him off guard. The sudden shift from the quiet night back to the mechanics of the game made his brain stutter. “What?”
“The roll,” Will said quietly, his fingers flexing again. “It was a seven. The Demogorgon… it got me.”
Mike paused, his brows furrowing. He looked at Will, realizing with a strange little jolt that Will had carried that number all the way up the stairs, through the kitchen, and out into the yard. Like it mattered, or like it was real. “You can reroll next time,” He said, shrugging a shoulder. “I didn’t even see it. It doesn't count if the DM doesn't see it.”
Will shook his head. “It’s okay.” He looked up, meeting Mike’s eyes, and offered a small, genuine smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes.. “I really like the campaign. I can’t wait to play again.”
The words hit Mike with a strange warmth. He shifted his weight, suddenly very aware of how close they were standing. “Yeah,” Mike replied, his voice dropping a little quieter than he meant it to. “Me too.”
“Goodnight,” Will said, and then he was biking down the driveway, his figure swallowed by the dark faster than Mike expected.
Mike watched until the sound of his tires faded away. As he turned to head inside, the light above the garage flickered, and he glanced up, brow furrowing as unease crawled up his spine, but it steadied again. He stared at it for several seconds, wondering if he needed to tell his dad to change the bulb, but when the light remained steady, he shook it off and headed back inside.
Down in the basement, everything waited exactly where they’d left it. The table felt bigger without them, empty chairs pushed inward. The Demogorgon towered over Will’s fallen’s figurine, its shadow seemingly stretching farther across the board than it had before.
Mike’s eyes lingered on it longer this time, thinking of all the possibilities of next week. A small smile tugged at his mouth. “Next weekend,” he murmured, more of a promise than a plan before reaching up and turning off the lights.
Upstairs, the house had already settled into its nighttime quiet. The TV murmured faintly from the living room, some late rerun Karen was falling asleep halfway through. She shifted on the cushions, pulling a blanket higher up her legs as she yawned. Mike padded past it, careful not to disturb her, and took the stairs two at a time to his room.
He shut the door more softly than usual. The room felt too bright at first, the way it always did after the basement. He crossed to his desk and flicked off the lamp, then stood there for a second longer than necessary, staring at the dark shape of his bed. The campaign map replayed itself in his head, the pencils scribbling against paper, the voices overlapping, the Demogorgon looming, the die flying off the table. Will’s face rose up with it, not the way he’d looked at the table, but the smile he’d given Mike in the driveway. Small and certain, like he meant it.
Mike frowned in the dark, a sudden wave of irritation hitting him, and he shook his head once as if he could physically dislodge the memory. It was stupid. He was just tired. His brain was probably fried from staring at graph paper for half a day. He kicked off his shoes, letting them thud against the floorboards, and collapsed onto the bed, dragging the heavy blanket up to his chest.
He stared up at the ceiling, trying to focus on the plastic, glow-in-the-dark stars stuck there from when he was eight. They didn’t even glow anymore, having faded to a dull green years ago, but he counted them anyway, desperate for a distraction.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six...
“I really like the campaign.”
Mike rolled onto his side with a frustrated noise, burying half his face into the pillow. For some reason, his cheeks felt incredibly warm, an unexplainable heat that made the room feel suffocating despite the autumn breeze coming through the window. He reached out and flipped the pillow over, pressing his face against the temporary relief of the cold side, trying to force the blush down.
It was normal to be happy when someone liked your game. Will was his best friend. They’d known each other since kindergarten. Of course he cared what Will thought. That’s all it was. It was just relief.
He squeezed his eyes shut, locking his jaw, trying to build a wall in his mind to stop the thoughts from morphing into anything more complicated, anything he didn’t know how to name. He forced himself to think about the map, about the dice, about the figurines he still needed to paint, about literally anything else.
Eventually, the house went fully quiet. The TV clicked off downstairs, and Mike heard his mothers footsteps padding across the hallway. Mike’s mind quieted itself, and his breathing evened out despite himself.
He fell asleep still thinking about next weekend, about a sweet smile, and about the boy who owned it.
Will rode side by side with the others down the darkened street, his bike tires grinding softly against the pavement, the air cool enough now to sting a little in his lungs and eyes.
Lucas slowed first. “Goodnight, ladies,” he called, veering sharply into his driveway with a grin.
Dustin snorted. “Kiss your mom goodnight for me!”
Lucas flipped him off without slowing, hopping off his bike and letting it hit the ground before disappearing into his house.
Dustin laughed and turned his bike back toward the road. “Race to my place?” he said, already pedaling faster. “The winner gets a comic.”
Will glanced at him, an idea forming. “Any comic?”
Dustin nodded. “Any comic.”
Will didn’t hesitate as he took off. He shot ahead without warning, legs pumping hard, the rush of air roaring in his ears. Dustin yelped behind him, scrambling to catch up, but Will was already flying down the street, the distance stretching fast between them.
“Hey!” Dustin shouted. “Cheater!”
Will laughed breathlessly and called back over his shoulder, “I’m taking your X-Men one-three-four!”
Dustin cursed as Will vanished around the bend, the sound of his pedaling fading into the night. He didn't try to catch up, only chuckled before pulling into his own driveway.
Will slowed as the road narrowed, his breath fogging in front of him. Dustin’s house was long behind him now, and the street ahead was quiet and empty, lined with trees that pressed close on either side. No cars and no people, just the steady rhythm of his tires and the soft creaking of his bike.
His bike light flickered and Will ignored it the first time, but glanced down at it for barely a second when it flickered again. He returned his eyes to the road, and that was when he saw... it.
Something tall stood ahead of him, just a few feet away. Too tall, and entirely too still. His breath caught in his throat as a shout tore out of him, and he swerved sharply to the side. The bike skidded and the world lurched. He crashed into the woods with a sharp crack of branches and the crunch of dead leaves, hitting the ground hard enough to knock the air out of him.
For a moment, all he could hear was his own ragged breathing, and then something else - the sound of footsteps, slow and heavy. Will pushed himself upright, heart slamming against his ribs. His bike lay beside him, wheel still spinning uselessly. He looked toward the road, then toward the trees. His house was close, he could make it if he ran quick enough.
He bolted, branches ripping at his jacket as he tore through the trees, his lungs burning, his feet almost slipping in the dirt. He burst out onto the lawn and took the porch steps two at a time, slamming through the front door and yanking it shut behind him. The lock clicked and the chain rattled into place. Will leaned against the door, chest heaving as something bumped into his legs. “Chester,” he breathed, heart leaping painfully before he recognized the familiar shape. He ruffled the dog’s fur once before panic surged again and he sprinted down the hall.
“Mom?” he called. “Jonathan!” He checked their rooms, his voice growing more frantic with every empty space. No answer, and neither of their cars were outside. His mom was working graveyard, and he had no doubt Jonathan was too.
His hands shook as he grabbed the phone from the wall and 911 with clumsy fingers. “Hello?” he whispered, then louder, “Hello?” All that answered was a distant screeching sound, thin and wrong, like something echoing from far away. Will froze, then flinched as he heard the chain on the front door rattled. He didn't want to, but he turned slowly, peeking around the hallway just in time to see it slip loose, falling against the door with a dull clink. The lock turned, inch by inch.
Will dropped the phone and ran. He ran through the kitchen and burst out the back door so hard it slammed against the wall. He didn’t stop to look, and didn't care about any damage. He sprinted across the yard toward the shed, his lungs screaming and his legs threatening to give out.
All he wanted was his mom. The safe warmth of her arms wrapped around his body, the whisper of her voice telling him everything would be okay. Instead, his father’s voice echoed in his head, harsh and familiar. Real men defend themselves.
He wrenched the shed door open and slammed it shut behind him, fumbling for the old shotgun propped against the wall. It was the only gun their father had left, claiming it was a gift for Jonathan, but Will wasn't sure he'd ever even touched it. He tried to push a shell into the chamber, but his hands wouldn't cooperate. The casing slipped from his fingers, hitting the floorboards with a hollow clack before rolling away into the shadows. He let out a choked sob, dropping to his knees to grope in the dust for it, his chest so tight he could barely breathe.
There's no time for this, he thought as he stood back up and dumped the ammo box out onto the table. He managed to force the next two shells into the gun, the click of its loading sounding loud in the empty quiet of the woods outside.
He raised the gun, barrel pointed at the door, arms trembling too badly to keep it steady. His thoughts spiraled: his mom’s face if he hurt himself by accident, Jonathan telling him he shouldn’t be playing with guns. The hole he’d put in the shed door if he missed. He squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them again.
A tearing sound, like wet leather being ripped apart, echoed from the dark corner of the shed. A horrific, rotting stench filled the small space, instantly overriding the familiar smell of wood and oil. It smelled unnatural, like death and decay.
The light overhead flared into a blinding, pristine white, so intense it burned his eyes. Shadows stretched and warped unnaturally up the walls, bending toward him. He couldn't see a face or eyes, only the towering silhouette of something tall and wrong. The thing from the road.
His mother’s face flashed through his mind, her hand reaching out towards him. Then something grabbed him, and the world tore open.
The microwave clock blinked 7:14. The air still smelled like coffee and the toast Jonathan was burning, a familiar scent that usually grounded Joyce but now only made her more aware of how little time she had. Her purse lay overturned near the couch, its contents scattered across the floor. A lipstick had rolled beneath the side table, all the receipts were curled and yellowed scattered along the carpet, and a chapstick had been crushed flat under her heel. She crouched and swept an arm through it all, finding nothing but gum wrappers and the lighter she kept telling herself she’d throw away.
“Jonathan,” she called, her voice sharp with strain. “Have you seen my keys?”
From the kitchen came the hiss of butter hitting a hot pan, followed by Jonathan’s voice, calm in a way that immediately irritated her. “Did you check the couch cushions?”
Joyce let out a breath that was half a laugh, half something closer to a growl as she dropped onto the couch. “Yes, Jonathan,” she said with exaggerated patience, “I checked the couch cushions.”
Her hand slid between the cushions, and metal touched her fingers. She froze, then slowly pulled the keys free, staring at them for a second like they’d appeared out of thin air, like the couch had been holding onto them just to spite her. “Oh,” she muttered. “Of course.”
She stood and carried them into the kitchen, shaking her head at herself. “Thank you,” she said, quieter now, reaching out to ruffle Jonathan’s hair as she passed him. He leaned away out of habit, but she caught him anyway, fingers brushing through before he could escape.
She turned toward the table, already reaching for Will’s mop of hair-
And there was nothing there.
His chair was pushed in neatly, his glass of orange juice untouched. Joyce’s hand hovered in the air for a moment before falling back to her side. “Where’s Will?” she asked, frowning.
Jonathan scrambled the eggs, eyes fixed on the pan. “He’s still sleeping.”
“You didn’t wake him up?”
He shrugged. “I figured he would get up on his own.”
The disappointment slipped into her voice before she could stop it. “Jonathan,” she said, already moving toward the hallway. “You should’ve woken him up.”
Will’s bedroom door creaked softly as she pushed it open. The room was quiet, the bed made with an almost careful precision that immediately set her teeth on edge. No tangle of blankets, no discarded clothes. No Will doodling at his table.
She checked the bathroom, trying to ignore how her heart picked up speed, then her own room, then Jonathan’s, calling Will’s name each time, softer at first and then louder, panic beginning to bleed through the edges.
He wasn't home. Will wasn't inside the house.
She returned to the kitchen, breath shallow now. “Did Will come home last night?”
Jonathan hesitated just long enough for her to notice. “I-I don’t know.”
Her eyes locked on him, her tilting in disbelief. “You don’t know?”
He looked away, moving the eggs around again. “I picked up a shift. I didn’t get home until really late.”
Joyce’s jaw tightened as she threw her hands up. “Jonathan, you know better than that! Someone has to be home with Will. I told you you’re not supposed to take night shifts when I’m working.”
“I thought we needed the money,” he said quickly, defensive now. “Will probably stayed at Mike’s after their game.”
“I can’t believe this,” Joyce said, already grabbing the phone, fingers moving on muscle memory. Karen Wheeler answered on the second ring, the chaotic sound of a Wheeler morning in the background. “Karen, it’s Joyce,” she said, forcing her voice into something steady. “Did Will spend the night at your house?”
There was a pause on the other end, just long enough to feel wrong. “Uh, no. Why?”
Joyce closed her eyes, the kitchen tilting slightly beneath her. “When did he leave last night?” she asked.
“Same time he usually does,” Karen said gently, concern coloring her words. “Is something wrong?”
Joyce swallowed. “No. No, it’s nothing. He probably just went to school early.” She hung up without another word. The kitchen suddenly felt hollow, the sound of the stove too loud, all the walls too close around her. Jonathan was watching her now, fear dawning across his face in real time, mirroring the sick realization settling into her chest.
Will didn't stay last night. Will hadn’t come home last night.
The silence was deafening. Joyce stood with her hand hovering over her mouth, fingers curled as if she might press them against her lips and hold everything inside. The eggs on the stove hissed and popped, the smell turning bitter as they burned, and she couldn’t bring herself to move to fix it.
The kitchen felt wrong, too large, too hollow. There were three of them who lived here. There should have been three.
Her hand dropped. The keys were still in her other fist, the metal biting into her palm as she clenched them tighter, needing something solid. “I-” Joyce started, then stopped, her breath catching. She tried again. “Jonathan. You need to go to school.”
Jonathan’s head snapped up. “What? No. I can skip. I’ll come with you.”
She shook her head immediately, the motion sharp and almost frantic. Her words refused to line up the way they were supposed to, slipping away from her as fast as she reached for them. “No,” she said, softer now. “You go. I’ll-I’ll go to the station.”
He stepped toward her. “Mom-”
She crossed the space between them and grabbed his arm, her fingers curling around his sleeve. It wasn’t to stop him, it was to steady herself, to feel that he was there. “Go to school,” she said, voice low and shaking despite her effort. “I’ll handle this.”
Jonathan opened his mouth, but she was already moving, already turning away before she could see whatever he was about to say. She grabbed her jacket, and speed-walked out the door like if she slowed down even for a second, something in her might crack.
The morning air hit her hard as she climbed into the car. Joyce shut the door and sat there, hands locked around the steering wheel, her knuckles white. She took a deep breath, then let it out in a shaky exhale, leaning her forehead forward until it rested against the wheel.
Just one second, she told herself. Then she straightened and started the engine.
As she pulled out of the driveway, her eyes flicked to the broken glove compartment, the latch hanging loose the way it had for months now. She’d fix it with her next paycheck, she always told herself. Next paycheck, next week, next time.
The familiar jumble inside shifted, and something slipped into view. Will’s drawing. The rainbow ship.
The paper was wrinkled and soft at the edges from being folded and unfolded too many times, the colors fading just slightly with age. She’d kept it with her since Donald told her she couldn’t keep it up at the store, long after Will had stopped drawing rainbows and started drawing wizards and knights.
Her throat tightened, and she tried to swallow it down before a sob could burst free. The feeling she’d been pushing down since she’d opened Will’s door finally broke through, sharp and undeniable. Fear - not a manageable kind, not a kind you could reason away. The deep, sick certainty that something was wrong, that something had happened to her baby.
Tears blurred her vision and Joyce swiped at her eyes angrily, forcing them clear as she drove, refusing to let herself cry now. Not here, not when she still had to get to the station. She reached into the glove compartment, flipped the drawing face down, and grabbed her pack of cigarettes instead.
Her hands shook as she pulled free what she assumed to be the first of many today.
Mike drowned his eggs in syrup, watching the amber spill creep dangerously close to Nancy’s plate. “Mike,” she warned without looking at him, flipping through the pages of a textbook. He tipped the bottle just a little more, until syrup dripped onto her eggs. Nancy kicked him under the table, hard enough to jolt his knee into the wood. “Knock it off.”
He sucked in a breath, already drawing his leg back to retaliate-
“Behave,” Ted muttered from behind his newspaper, the word flat and automatic, like it had been programmed into him years ago.
Mike scowled and stabbed at his eggs instead, shooting Nancy a look that promised revenge later. She smirked into her coffee as she glanced over.
Ahead of them, the phone clicked back into its cradle. Mike glanced up without really thinking about it and saw his mom by the counter, her back half-turned, one hand still resting on the phone like she’d forgotten to move it. For just a second, her face didn’t look like her face. Something tight and unsettled was there, gone almost as soon as it appeared.
Nancy noticed too. “Mom?” she asked. “Everything okay?”
Karen turned, the expression already smoothed away. “Oh. Yes. Of course.” She moved toward the table, reaching for a dish towel. “That was just Joyce.”
Mike’s fork paused halfway to his mouth. “Mrs. Byers?” His eyebrows knit together. “Why was she calling?”
“She was just asking if Will spent the night here,” Karen said, her tone light but not quite matching her words. “He must’ve gone to school early and worried her.”
Mike frowned, dropping his bite back to the plate. “Why would he do that?”
Karen hesitated for half a second, so brief it might’ve been nothing before shrugging. “Kids do strange things sometimes.”
Ted snorted softly. “Strange kid,” he added, eyes still glued to the paper. “Always has been.” Mike shot him a look sharp enough to cut, but Ted didn’t notice.
Karen reached for her coffee, took a sip and then smiled again, brighter this time. “Really, there’s nothing to worry about.”
Mike didn't nod, he just stared at his plate, the sweetness of the maple syrup suddenly making his stomach turn. Adults say things like that all the time - nothing to worry about, everything’s fine, go back to sleep - usually right before something shitty happens. And the logic didn't track either. Will didn't just "do strange things." Will hated making his mom worry, and he never went anywhere without telling Jonathan.
Under the table, Holly kicked her feet absently, her small shoe thumping against Mike’s shin. The repetitive thud pulled him out of his head. He glanced down at his sister, then scraped a few bites of untouched egg onto the edge of his plate, nudging it toward her. She beamed, stuffing the food into her mouth with sticky fingers, oblivious to strange weight over the kitchen. Karen turned back from the sink just in time to miss it, setting a fresh stack of napkins on the table.
Breakfast went on as normal. Nancy complained about a test. Ted turned another page of the paper. Holly giggled as Karen cleaned her hands. Mike ate his eggs. The radio switched songs.
Everything was completely normal.
Mike caught up to the others halfway down the road, pedaling harder than he meant to. Lucas and Dustin were already riding side by side, arguing loudly about something Mike didn’t bother listening to. He slowed as he reached them, falling into place without thinking.
The space to his right stayed empty and his eyes flicked there anyway, his brain filling in Will automatically. Will with his too small bike, his too big backpack. Mike frowned, the absence feeling wrong. Will should be there, hunched forward, complaining about the wind or excitedly recapping the campaign. The empty air felt louder than the arguing.
“Earth to Mike,” Lucas said, leaning over and waving a hand in front of his face. “Why the long face?”
Mike swatted his hand away. “Cut it out.” He adjusted his grip on the handlebars. “Will went to school early. Guess it’s just us.”
Dustin snorted. “Probably because of Gursky. He’s been way too strict about attendance lately.” He shook his head knowingly. “You know how Will is. Dude’s terrified of getting in trouble.”
“Yeah,” Mike said after a second. The word came out quieter than he meant it to. He didn’t mention his mom hanging up the phone, didn’t mention the look on her face. Moms worried about everything, that was just how they were. He told himself that explanation fit, even if it sat wrong.
Lucas kicked off, suddenly grinning. “Race you to school,” he said, already pulling ahead. “Last one there’s a slug!”
“Hey-” Dustin yelped, scrambling to keep up. “That’s not fair, you started already!”
Mike laughed despite himself and pushed harder, the wind rushing past his ears, the familiar burn in his legs grounding him. For a few minutes, it worked. The worry loosened its grip, replaced by shouting and pedaling and the stupid joy of going too fast.
They skidded into the bike rack breathless and laughing, Lucas bragging about his victory while Dustin accused him of cheating as usual.
Mike’s smile faded as he locked his bike. He scanned the rack once, then again to be sure. “I don’t see Will’s,” he said.
Lucas shrugged, locking his bike. “He probably went straight to class so he could sit up front like a nerd.”
Dustin nodded, kicking a pebble at Mike's feet. “First one in, last one out.”
Mike opened his mouth to argue, but the words died on his tongue. He stared at the empty slot where Will’s bike usually leaned, the chain scratched up from where Will always accidentally banged it against the frame. It just didn't make sense. Will didn't rush ahead, he didn't like walking into the school building alone.
Before Mike could shake the sudden cold weight sinking into his stomach, a harsh voice called out. “Well, look at this,” Troy sneered, swaggering closer with James at his heels. “Didn’t realize the freak show was in town.”
They stopped a few feet away, grinning like they’d been waiting all morning for this. “We got Midnight,” Troy said, jerking his head toward Lucas, who immediately stiffened. “Frogface. Toothless.” Troy’s eyes flicked around the empty space next to Mike. “Where’s Fairy?”
A sharp, ugly spike of heat flared in Mike’s chest. He stepped half a inch to the right, instinctively trying to block Troy's view of the empty bike slot, as if he could shield Will from the insult even when he wasn't there to hear it.
Dustin bristled beside him, his voice cracking slightly. “Screw off.”
James laughed, mimicking Dustin's lisp cruelly. Troy shoved past them, his shoulder slamming into Mike’s with enough deliberate force to knock him off balance.
Mike clenched his jaw. “Mouthbreathers,” he muttered as they walked off, loud enough for Lucas and Dustin to hear, but not loud enough to start something worse. He knew the rules by now. Don’t give them what they want, and don’t let it turn into a show. Troy liked reactions, liked knowing he’d gotten under someone’s skin. Mike had learned the hard way that silence irritated him more than yelling ever did.
They regrouped without saying much, the earlier laughter already fading. As they headed toward the building, Mike glanced back at the bike rack one last time.
Will’s spot was still empty.
The chair in Hopper’s office was so uncomfortable it felt intentional, like it was specifically engineered to make Joyce's day even more difficult. Joyce shifted in it, crossing and uncrossing her legs, smoke curling up from the cigarette between her fingers.
She took another drag, checked the clock on the wall for what felt like the tenth time, and finally stood. Pacing helped a little. The office was small and cluttered, boxes stacked against one wall, file folders sat unevenly on shelves that had given up on being organized. Photographs were taped up wherever there was space, police group shots, fishing pictures, a crooked flyer for a potluck that had already passed.
One photo caught her eye, though. Hopper stood in the middle of it, arm slung around someone from the station, mouth full of a dinner roll, cheeks puffed out mid-chew. It was clearly taken at a Christmas party. He was grinning, the lines around his eyes softer than Joyce remembered seeing them lately. He looked… lighter. Carefree, even.
She narrowed her eyes at it, a humorless huff escaping her. He was probably drunk.
Joyce turned away and resumed pacing, her thoughts snapping back, as they often did, to Will. His empty bed, his untouched breakfast. The way her house had felt wrong the moment she’d realized he wasn't in it.
The door opened behind her. “-Mornings are for coffee and contemplation,” Hopper’s voice said, drifting in before he did. “Not paperwork.”
Joyce spun around, and Hopper froze in the doorway, a donut hanging from his mouth. He stared at her for a beat, surprise flickering across his face before it settled into something more guarded. He pulled the donut free, wiping a stray spec of sugar from his thumb onto his uniform pants, and cleared his throat. “Joyce. Sorry. I didn’t realize-”
“I’ve been waiting forever,” She said, already crossing the room toward him. She felt the need to grip his shoulders and shake him around a little, but she pushed it aside.
He stepped fully into the room, gesturing vaguely at the chair. “Yeah. Sorry about that.”
“Will didn’t come home last night.”
The words hung in the air. Hopper stopped short of his chair, his hand resting on the backrest. He looked at her carefully, his eyes tracking the frantic way she was holding her cigarette, like he was trying to calculate exactly how much of this was normal Joyce anxiety versus a real problem. “Are you sure?”
Her irritation flared up hot and immediate. “Of course I’m sure! You think I came here without checking?”
Hopper raised both hands, a tired, placating gesture he’d probably used a thousand times on drunk townies. “Okay. Okay. Yelling at me won't get him here faster.”
“Don’t start, Hop,” Joyce snapped, her patience at its end. She took a long drag of her cigarette, flicking the ash on the carpet without a thought.
Hopper let his hands fall, dropping heavily into his chair. He pulled a desk drawer open and tossed a missing persons form onto the desk between them. Joyce dropped back into the chair across from him and stared at the sheet silently, her stomach churning at the sight.
He leaned back, the springs of his chair groaning again as he adjusted his gun belt. When he spoke, his voice took on a deliberate, patronizing slowness, the tone reserved for dealing with high-strung parents. “Joyce, are you absolutely sure Will is missing? Kids do stuff without telling their parents all the time. He could be playing hooky.”
“No,” Joyce said immediately, leaning forward so fast her knees nearly banged against the edge of his desk. “He wouldn’t. Not my Will.”
Hopper tilted his head, a faint, cynical smirk playing at the corner of his mustache. “I used to. All the time. And you weren’t exactly a rule-follower either, if I remember right.”
“That was different,” she shot back, her voice rising an octave. “Will isn’t like you. Or me. He’s not like most.” She dropped her elbows onto her knees, the cigarette trembling so badly between her fingers that ash spilled over her jeans. “If he ever did something like that, he would’ve done it with his friends. He doesn’t just disappear. He’s careful, Hop. He worries about the rules. He’s… he's a sensitive kid.”
She swallowed hard, a suffocating lump rising in her throat, forcing her to look down at her own lap. “Lonnie used to say there was something wrong with him,” she whispered. “Used to say he was queer. Called him a fag.”
The office went completely still. Hopper’s cynical expression left, replaced by a heavy silence. He stared at her for a long second, his gaze dropping to the paperwork on his desk. "Jesus.” He ran a rough, calloused hand down his chin, the scratch of his stubble loud in the quiet room. “Is he-”
Joyce’s head snapped up, her eyes flashing with a sudden, vicious defensiveness. “He’s missing,” she said, cutting right through whatever question he was trying to ask. “That’s what he is.”
Another heavy beat passed, filled only by the low hum of the station outside the office. Hopper picked up a cheap plastic pen, tapping the cap against his thumb. “When was the last time you talked to Lonnie?”
“A few months ago,” she said, her voice tight.
“Where’s he staying?”
“Somewhere near Indianapolis, I think,” she said, losing patience. “But he has nothing to do with this.”
Hopper gave her a look. A deeply skeptical look with a raised eyebrow.
“He doesn’t,” Joyce repeated, her voice raising as she tried to convince herself just as much as him.
Hopper leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk. “Joyce. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, a kid goes missing, they’re with a parent or guardian.”
Joyce swallowed, the mention of the odds doing nothing to stop the icy dread pooling in her stomach. She looked at the missing persons form, then directly into Hopper's tired eyes. “What about the one?”
He blinked, the tapping of his pen coming to a halt. “What?”
“The one time,” she said louder. “You said ninety-nine times out of hundred. What about the one? What about then?”
Hopper looked away first, his jaw tightening as he set the pen down. “No one’s been kidnapped in Hawkins in a long time, Joyce,” he said, though his tone lacked the conviction it had a minute ago. “And no one’s been murdered for quite a while either.”
Joyce leaned back, grinding her cigarette out into the ashtray with so much force the cherry snapped off. “That brings me no comfort at all.”