The house is already too full by the time they arrive.
Music pounds through the wallsâsomething fast and distorted, the bass rattling picture frames and shaking the floorboards beneath their feet. Fog machine smoke curls lazily through the living room, mixing with the smell of cheap beer, sweat, and pumpkin guts tracked in from outside.
Someone screams near the kitchen.
Someone else laughs too hard.
Steve Harrington stands near the keg like he belongs thereâlike he always has. His costume is already half ruined, sleeves pushed up, hair mussed from hands tugging at it as people shove past.
âRecordâs still mine,â heâs saying, cocky, holding court.
Billy Hargrove hears that and grins.
He pushes forward through the crowd, leather jacket slung over his shoulders, eyes sharp and amused. âThat so?â
The room seems to lean toward him instinctively.
Moments later, Billyâs upside downâhands planted, feet braced by cheering idiots, the keg hose tilted just right. Beer spills everywhere, sloshing down his chin, soaking his shirt, but he doesnât stop.
Steve watches, jaw tight.
The count gets louder. Sloppier.
When Billy finally pulls away, gasping and triumphant, the house erupts.
âNew record!â someone yells.
Billy wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and smirks straight at Steve. âBetter luck next time, Harrington.â
Steve forces a laugh, raises his cup in mock salute. âCongrats.â
Across the room, Nancy Wheeler watches it all like sheâs underwater.
Sheâs standing near the staircase, red Solo cup already empty in her hand. Someone presses another into it without asking. She doesnât refuse.
She drinks.
And drinks again.
The noise dulls at the edges, the sharpness of everything softening just enough to breathe. The images that have been haunting her all dayâBarbâs face, the empty chair at the Holland house, the closed blinds in the libraryâblur into something less defined.
Good.
She doesnât want clarity tonight.
She wants quiet.
Steve finds her an hour later, cup refilled, laughter too loud, eyes glassy.
âNance,â he says gently, leaning close so she can hear him. âHey. Slow down, okay?â
She smiles at himâtoo quick, too practiced. âIâm fine. Weâre being stupid teenagersâŠremember?â
He doesnât believe her.
But the music swells again, someone spills beer on the couch, and Billyâs already being hoisted up for another round of applause.
The party roars on.
And Nancy keeps drinkingânot to celebrate, not to competeââbut to forget.
Just for tonight.
Marlene Mayfield was a haunting vision, the perfect embodiment of Carrie Whiteâs prom night aftermathâethereal yet laced with horror. Her thrifted pink gown, delicate with rosebud embroidery, had once been the picture of vintage charm. But now, it told a far darker story. Shimmering red bedazzled âbloodâ spilled in intricate patterns down the fabric, transforming the dress into a grotesque masterpiece. Under the party lights, the blood glittered, an unsettlingly beautiful contradiction that drew every gaze and held it captive between admiration and unease.
Her hair, normally styled into flawless waves, hung in damp, tangled strands around her face, slicked down with a torrent of sticky crimson. The fake blood clung to her skin and shoulders, pooling at the base of her neck like a grotesque necklace. Her pale face, streaked with the same gory red, gave her the ghostly appearance of a porcelain doll drowned in carnage.
But the crownâoh, the crownâwas what truly completed the nightmare. A polished pageant tiara perched regally on her head, glinting with an almost mocking innocence. From its apex rose a handmade prop: a tilted bucket frozen mid-pour. Red silk and tulle spilled from its brim, cascading like an endless waterfall of blood. The illusion was so perfect it was as if the bucket had only just been tipped, forever caught in its moment of horror.
Marlene moved through the party like a queen surveying her court, her confidence unshaken by the stares that followed her every step. Whispers rippled in her wakeâsome gasped, others laughed nervouslyâbut no one could look away. She owned the room, her presence bold, theatrical, and utterly unapologetic.
At the punch bowl, a cluster of students murmured among themselves. One girl, wide-eyed, whispered, âThatâs⊠a lot.â
âYeah, but she nailed it,â another replied, her tone grudgingly admiring.
Marlene overheard them and smiled, the corner of her lips curving upward in a way that was both playful and sinister. She poured herself a cup of punch, the blood on her hands staining the paper cup in streaks. âYou can say it,â she quipped, her voice light but carrying a sharp edge. âItâs art.â
The group fell silent, their discomfort feeding her amusement. With a regal tilt of her head, she raised her cup in a mock toast before melting back into the crowd. Marlene didnât just wear the tragedy of Carrie Whiteâshe commanded it, wielding her costume like a weapon of both beauty and terror.
Eddie Munson leaned against the far wall, surrounded by the usual chaos of his Hellfire Club misfits. He was mid-sentence, recounting some over-the-top campaign twist, when his words caught in his throat. His gaze locked onto herâMarlene Mayfield. The world around him seemed to dissolve, the music, the crowd, the party itself fading into a muted haze. All that remained was her.
âWhoâs that?â he murmured, barely audible above the pounding bass.
Gareth followed his line of sight and snorted. âThatâs Marlene Mayfield. Valley Girl. Head Cheerleader Wannabe. Out of your league, man.â
Eddie didnât bother responding. His dark eyes stayed fixed on her, transfixed by the way she moved through the crowd like she owned the room. Marleneâs costumeâCarrie White, drenched in shimmering, bedazzled bloodâwas a spectacle that dared anyone to look away. Her every step carried an effortless confidence, and the murmurs that followed her were more a coronation than criticism.
Sure, Eddie had noticed her beforeâhow could he not? She was the girl everyone noticed, whether on the sidelines at games or laughing with her friends in the hallways. But tonight, she was something else entirely. She wasnât just Marlene the cheerleader. She was magnetic, a walking work of art steeped in macabre brilliance.
She made her way to the punch bowl, her presence cutting a path through the throng of partygoers. Eddie didnât think. His feet moved on instinct, weaving through the crowd until he found himself standing a few feet away.
âLet me guess,â he said, his voice carrying just enough volume to rise above the noise. âCarrie White. Post-bucket moment?â
Marlene turned at the sound of his voice, her bright green eyes locking onto his. For a second, she said nothing, just studied him with a curious tilt of her head. Then, her lips curled into a small, knowing smile.
âYouâre the first person to get it right,â she said, her tone amused. âEveryone else just keeps asking why Iâm covered in glittery blood.â
Eddie felt a grin spread across his face, his usual bravado kicking in. âAmateurs,â he said, crossing his arms in mock disdain. âThey donât understand the masterpiece theyâre looking at. Honestly? Youâre pulling it off better than Sissy Spacek herself.â
Marlene laughedâa warm, genuine sound that cut through the noise like a melody. Eddie felt it ripple through him, equal parts exhilarating and disarming. He didnât know much about her, but that laugh was enough to tell him he was already in over his head.
âThanks,â she said, brushing a damp strand of blood-slicked hair from her face. âAnd you are?â
âEddie Munson,â he said, stepping forward with an exaggerated flourish and offering his hand. âDungeon Master, guitarist, general purveyor of chaos. And you, Carrie White?â
âMarlene Mayfield,â she replied, shaking his hand with a firm grip that belied the delicate gown she wore. âCheerleader, former pageant queen, and apparently, a walking horror show tonight.â
âThe coolest horror show Iâve ever seen,â Eddie quipped, his grin widening.
For a moment, they stood there, the rest of the party fading into background noise. Eddie didnât care about the beer-soaked jocks or the flashing lights anymore. All he saw was Marlene, her confidence lighting up the room in ways no costume ever could.
The moment between Eddie and Marlene was just starting to settle into a comfortable rhythm when Donnaâs unmistakable voice cut through the noise like a firecracker.
Not because the music got quieter.
Because the room changed.
It happened the way it always did when something important entered a spaceânot all at once, but in ripples. A lull in conversation. A head turning. Someone muttering holy shit under their breath.
Eddie followed the shift instinctively.
And there she was.
Donna Henderson.
For a second, he didnât recognize her. His brain tried to reconcile the girl he knewâthe quiet one, the weird one, the one people whispered about like she was contagiousâwith what he was seeing now.
Pink. Glittering. Commanding.
She stood at the edge of the living room like sheâd been dropped there on purpose, bathed in party lights that caught on every shimmer and fringe. A cropped top flashed silver at the seams, paired with a high-waisted skirt that moved when she did, scattering light like sparks. Draped over her shoulders was a jacket heavy with long pink fringe, strands swaying lazily as if the outfit itself was breathing.
And the hat.
A sparkling pink cowgirl hat sat tilted just-so on her head, feathers flaring from one side like punctuation.
Donna looked unsure of her hands. Of her feet. Of the attention sheâd just hijacked without meaning to.
The crowd did not share her hesitation.
âThere you are!â Donna slurred, her voice full of exaggerated drama. She was teetering precariously on her heels, her oversized cowgirl hat tilted so far to the side it was a miracle it hadnât fallen off her poofy head. âMarlene, what the hell are you doing over here? Flirting with⊠wait, who are you again?â
Eddie arched a brow, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. âEddie,â he said, gesturing toward himself with a flourish. âMunson. Dungeon Master. Coolest guy in Hawkins. Youâve probably heard of me.â
Donna squinted at him, her drunk brain processing his introduction for a beat too long before she turned back to Marlene. âWhatever. You! Dance floor! Now!â
Marlene laughed, glancing between Eddie and Donna, who was somehow still upright despite leaning at angles that suggested balance was purely theoretical.
âDonna,â Marlene said, trying to hold back her amusement, âIâm in heels and covered in fake blood. Do you really think Iâm going to survive another round out there?â
âExcuses,â Donna declared, wobbling forward in a wild, clumsy motion. âI broke my leg, Marlene. My leg. And Iâm still killing it on the dance floor. You have no excuse.â
Marlene shook her head, smiling despite herself. âI donât think youâre killing it, Donna. I think youâre two seconds away from falling and taking half the party with you.â
âThatâs quitter talk,â Donna shot back, thrusting the red solo cup in her hand forward in a gesture that was meant to be dramatic but almost caused her to tip over. Marlene instinctively reached out to steady her, her laugh spilling over louder now.
âOkay, okay,â Marlene said, her hands raised in mock surrender. She glanced at Eddie, whose expression was a mix of amusement and reluctant admiration for Donnaâs drunken determination. âDuty calls.â
âWait,â Eddie said, his tone playful as he pointed at Donna. âAre you kidnapping her? Is this a hostage situation? Because I donât think I can compete with that level of chaos.â
Donna gave him a wide, toothy grin. âAbsolutely. Iâm her chaotic savior. And youââshe jabbed the cup toward him for emphasisââcan keep sulking against the wall. Or, I dunno, find a better costume next time.â
Eddie barked out a laugh, raising his hands in surrender. âNoted. You win this round, Cowgirl.â
Marlene, still laughing, gave Eddie a small wave before Donna pulled her back toward the thrumming bass of the dance floor.
âDonna,â Marlene said as they wove their way through the crowd, âyou do realize youâre probably going to break your other leg at this rate, right?â
Donna, already moving to the beat of the music with an unsteady sway, shot her a grin that could only belong to someone too far gone to care. âWorth it! Halloween only happens once a year, Marlene! Now dance!â
And just like that, Marlene found herself bracing them both in the middle of the chaosâlaughing, stumbling, barely upright. It was messy. It was ridiculous.
And somehow, it was perfect.
Joanna Byers strides into the Halloween party like sheâs walking onto a battlefield, her presence crackling with energy that makes heads turn. Dressed as Joan of Arc, sheâs more than a clever pun on her nameâsheâs the embodiment of defiance and strength, her costume a perfect blend of historical homage and personal flair.
In her hand, she carries a shield that could have stepped out of a medieval epic. Painted with bold strokes of red and gold, it depicts a phoenix rising from flames, its wings stretched wide in triumph. The word Courage arcs across the bottom in Joannaâs distinctive handwriting, a reminder of her own unyielding spirit. Her other hand grips the hilt of a wooden sword, its surface etched with gold-painted designs that shimmer faintly as she gestures. Though blunt-edged, it commands respectâmuch like the girl wielding it.
Her face tells the rest of the story. Joannaâs hair is swept back, its natural waves lending her the look of someone perpetually prepared for battle. Smudges of charcoal streak her cheeks, giving the impression of soot and dirt from a hard-fought campaign. Her eyes, framed by sharp strokes of dark eyeliner, are piercing, their intensity magnified by the fiery glow of her makeup. Her lips, painted a bold crimson, add a touch of regal defianceâa queen as much as a warrior.
Every detail of her costume feels deliberate. A small locket hangs around her neck, its silver casing concealing a photo of her family, grounding her warrior persona in something deeply personal. A strip of crimson fabric hangs loosely from her waist, trailing behind her like a trophy of past victories, its frayed edges adding an air of authenticity.
As Joanna moves through the crowd, her shield slung casually at her side and her sword resting against her hip, she doesnât just wear the costumeâshe becomes Joan of Arc. The costume speaks volumes about her: a girl who has faced the flames and come out stronger, a fighter who refuses to back down.
When someone calls out, âHey, Joan of Arc!â she answers with a smirk, her lips curling just enough to hint at the punâs intentionality. Because while the joke might get a laugh, the power in her presence is no joke at all.
 Unbothered by the stares she drew, Marlene tilted her head back dramatically and sipped punch from a solo cup as if it were the finest champagne.
âYouâre really leaning into this LA drama queen thing, huh?â Donna teased, a crooked grin lighting up her face.
Marlene spun in place, the hem of her tattered dress fluttering. âHoney,â she said with a wink, âif youâre gonna do Halloween, you commit. Blood, tears, the works.â
Donna threw her head back in laughter, her hat tipping dangerously close to falling off. âFair point, Carrie,â she quipped. âYouâre horrifying. And I mean that in the best way.â
Across the room, Robin Buckley leaned against the refreshments table, quietly enjoying her own brand of mischief. Dressed as a pun incarnateâa Cereal Killerâher shirt was adorned with stabbed mini cereal boxes, each dripping with fake blood. It was, in her opinion, a masterclass in cleverness. Unfortunately, no one else seemed to get it.
That was, until Donna spotted her.
Donnaâs eyes went wide, her mouth falling open in theatrical awe. She gasped, wobbling like sheâd just unearthed the secret of the universe. âOH MY GOD!â she shouted, loud enough to draw stares. âYouâre a⊠youâre a⊠A CEREAL KILLER!â She jabbed a crutch toward Robin with wild enthusiasm. âTHATâS⊠THATâS BRILLIANT!â
Robin froze mid-sip, startled by the sudden outburst. A grin crept across her face as she set her drink down. âThank you,â she replied, raising her hands in mock humility. âFinally, someone gets it.â
Donna, however, was just getting started. She turned to Marlene, grabbing her blood-slicked arm for balance and nearly pulling them both down. âMarlene! Do you see this? Itâs cereal⊠with knives! Like, murder cereal!â Her voice climbed with each word as if she were explaining quantum physics.
Marlene squinted, tilting her head as though truly contemplating the depths of Robinâs genius. âOh my God,â she whispered reverently, placing a dramatic hand on her chest. âThatâs⊠art. Literal art.â
Robin bit back a laugh. âWell, thank you, Galm Barbie Cowgirl and Carrie White. Glad to know someone here appreciates the finer things.â
Joanna Byersâever the reluctant voice of reasonâmaterialized out of the crowd. Dressed as Joan of Arc, her phoenix-emblazoned shield slung across her back, she carried the exhausted grace of someone whoâd been playing peacekeeper all night.
She swept in with a sigh, catching Donna by the elbow before she could sway too far off balance..
âOkay,â Joanna said, her tone firm but exasperated, âyou two need to sit down before you both turn into actual party casualties.â
Donna blinked at her, wide-eyed. âBut Joanna! Sheâs a cereal killer! And Iâm a genius for figuring it out!â
âYes, Donna,â Joanna replied flatly, her voice dripping with sarcasm as she guided the wobbling pair toward an empty corner. âYouâre a regular Einstein. And Iâm the patron saint of babysitting.â
Robin raised her cup in a mock toast as the trio shuffled away. âIf you think this is genius, just wait till next year. Iâm bringing out the pun pyramid.â
Donna started giggling uncontrollably again, nearly losing her hat in the process, while Marlene solemnly declared, âWeâll never top this party. Never.â
Joanna rolled her eyes but couldnât suppress a small smile. The chaos, somehow, was the perfect encapsulation of them all.
Jonathan knows the party is a bad idea the moment he steps inside.
The house is already too loud, too hot, packed wall to wall with bodies moving in reckless patterns. Music blares from blown speakers, the bass thudding hard enough to vibrate his ribs. He hovers near the entryway, camera strap tight in his hands like it might anchor him to something solid.
A girl from his history classâLinda, maybe?âsmiles at him from beside the snack table.
âSo,â she says, leaning in like this is the most natural thing in the world, âyouâre Jonathan Byers, right?â
Jonathan startles. âYeah. Uhâhi.â
She laughs softly. âYou take pictures, right?â
âOh. Yeah. I meanâsometimes.â He shifts his weight, suddenly hyperaware of his hands. âIâm notâlikeâright now.â
âThatâs cool,â she says. âI just think itâs kind of⊠mysterious.â
Jonathan flushes, heat crawling up his neck. âThanks. I guess.â
Heâs halfway through a painfully stiff attempt at a smile when raised voices cut through the music.
Jonathanâs head snaps up.
Near the center of the room, Steve Harrington stands with his hands half-raised, frustration written all over his face. Nancy is in front of him, posture rigid, eyes bright with something sharp and dangerous.
âYou donât get to tell me how Iâm supposed to feel,â Nancy says, her voice trembling just enough to give her away.
âIâm not trying toââ Steve starts.
Someone bumps into the table beside them.
A cup tips.
Amber liquid arcs through the air and splashes down the front of Nancyâs costume, soaking the fabric, dripping to the floor.
The room reacts all at onceâgroans, laughter, someone yelling oh shit.
Nancy looks down at herself.
Then she laughs.
Itâs brittle. Wrong.
âPerfect,â she says. âJustâperfect.â
Steve reaches for her instinctively. âNance, Iâm sorry, I didnâtââ
âDonât,â she snaps, pulling away. âJustâdonât.â
She turns and pushes through the crowd, shoulders squared like sheâs holding herself together by sheer force.
Steve hesitates only a second before following.
Jonathan watches them disappear down the hallway, stomach twisting.
Donna doesnât notice.
Sheâs laughing too loud near the kitchen, fringe swaying with every exaggerated movement, pink glitter catching the light as she spins in place. Someone hands her another drink. She doesnât ask who.
Thatâs when Billy Hargrove clocks her.
Heâs leaning against the counter near the keg, nursing a beer like heâs bored of it already, eyes half-lidded as he scans the room. Heâs seen Donna beforeâeveryone hasâbut not like this.
Not glowing.
Not smiling.
Not unguarded.
Something predatory flickers behind his grin.
He pushes off the counter and cuts through the crowd with lazy confidence, stopping just close enough to be noticed.
âWell,â Billy says, voice smooth and deliberate, âif this isnât the most interesting thing in the house tonight.â
Donna turns, squinting for a second before her face brightens. âOh! Youâreââ She snaps her fingers, searching. âThe angry older brother guy.â
Billy laughs. âClose enough.â
He looks her over openlyânot leering, not rushing it. Like he knows time is on his side.
âDidnât take you for a cowgirl,â he adds.
Donna lifts her chin, wobbling just slightly. âI didnât either. But Marlene did. And Marlene is very convincing.â
Billy hums. âYeah. I can see that.â
Across the room, someone nudges a friend. A couple of guys near the stairs exchange looks. Thereâs a murmurâquiet, knowing.
Billy doesnât care.
He steps closer, lowering his voice. âYou look like youâre having a good night.â
Donna grins. âBest one in a while.â
âThat so?â His smile sharpens just a touch. âWouldnât want it to end early.â
Donna sways, laughs, takes another sip.
And somewhere behind Billyâs eyes, a clock is ticking.
Halloween.
Last chance.
He glances toward the stairsâtoward the rooms above, toward the quiet places the party hasnât touched yetâthen back to Donna, his smile settling into something practiced.
âCâmon,â he says lightly. âLetâs get you some air.â
Donna hesitates.
The music swells.
And the night, already full of bad decisions, leans closer.
Donna feels like the night is moving around her instead of the other way around.
The music isnât loud anymoreâitâs thick. Heavy bass pressing into her chest, vibrations crawling up her legs through the floorboards. The lights smear when she turns her head too fast, pink and red and gold bleeding into one another like wet paint.
Billyâs voice cuts through it anyway.
Low. Smooth. Anchoring.
Heâs closer now. She doesnât remember him stepping closer, just suddenly being aware of how warm the air feels between them. How tall he is. How everyone else seems⊠farther away.
âYou okay there, cowgirl?â he asks, amusement curling at the edge of his words.
Donna laughs because it feels expected. Because laughing is easier than thinking.
âYeah,â she says. âIâmâyeah.â
She is, sort of. Her body feels light, loose, like gravity has finally stopped nagging her. The buzzing in her head dulls everything sharpâBarb, the lab, the questions she doesnât know how to answer. All the things that usually sit too close to the surface.
Billy hands her another drink.
She doesnât remember asking for it.
âEasy,â she says, but she takes it anyway, fingers brushing his for half a second longer than necessary. Her skin tingles where they touch, and she tells herself itâs just the alcohol.
Itâs always just the alcohol.
âYouâre different tonight,â Billy says, eyes tracking her face in a way that makes her feel⊠seen. Not the way people usually see her. Not curious or wary or pitying.
Different feels good.
âAm I?â she asks.
âYeah,â he says. âLike you finally figured out you donât have to be invisible.â
Donna smiles at that. Big. Unfiltered.
âIâm not invisible,â she says, almost proudly. âIâm very pink.â
Billy chuckles. âHard to miss.â
The crowd shifts, bodies pressing closer, and suddenly the space feels too tight. Billy notices before she does.
âCâmon,â he says easily. âLetâs get you some air.â
The word air sounds nice. Clean. Necessary.
Donna hesitatesâbut only for a second. The hesitation dissolves under the warmth in her chest, the way the night feels softer when she doesnât question it.
âOkay,â she says.
They move through the house together, and the farther they get from the music, the quieter her thoughts become. That should scare her.
It doesnât.
Her foot catches on the edge of a rug, and she stumbles. Billyâs hand snaps out, gripping her arm, steadying her with ease.
âYou good?â he asks.
His fingers stay there.
A flickerâsomething cold and distantâpasses through her chest. A memory of hands pulling her out of somewhere dark. Of being carried. Of not being able to move at all.
She shakes it off.
âYeah,â she says again. âIâm fine.â
Billy smiles like thatâs the answer he wanted.
They stop near the staircase, the noise behind them muffled now, the upstairs dark and quiet by comparison. Donna leans against the banister, suddenly aware of how unsteady she actually feels.
Billy watches her closely.
âYou trust me?â he asks, casual. Almost joking.
Donna laughs, because the question feels silly. Because trust feels like a big word for a moment this small.
âSure,â she says.
The word leaves her mouth too easily.
Somewhere deep inside herâbeneath the alcohol, beneath the music, beneath the pink and the glitterâsomething stirs.
Not fear.
Instinct.
But itâs faint. Drowned out. Blurred at the edges.
And Donna doesnât hear it clearly enough to know itâs trying to warn her.
The snow recedes in dirty, uneven patches along the curb, revealing dead grass and last yearâs leaves pressed flat into the ground like theyâve given up trying to be alive again. Hawkins exhales, slow and reluctant, and everything feels raw in the aftermathâlike the town itself doesnât know what to do with what survived.
Donna Henderson is still surviving.
Steve Harrington starts showing up like itâs an accident.
The first time, itâs homework.
He knocks once, quick and polite, then takes a step back from the door like he doesnât want to crowd it. When Donna answers, sheâs braced on one crutch, hair pulled back messily, eyes tired but alert. She looks surprised to see him. Not startled. Just⊠caught off guard.
âHey,â he says, holding up a folder. âClaudia said you missed chem. Thought you might want the notes.â
She blinks, then nods. âThanks.â
Thatâs it.
No follow-up. No lingering.
She takes the folder. He waits long enough to make sure sheâs steady, then leaves.
The second time, itâs a jacket.
âWell,â he says, holding it out sheepishly, âyou, uh⊠left this in my car.â
Donna stares at it.
She knows that jacket. Knows every frayed seam, every place sheâs sewn it back together. She hasnât worn it since November.
She also knows she didnât leave it in his car.
But she doesnât call him on it.
âOh,â she says instead. âRight. Thanks.â
Steve nods, relief flickering across his face like he was worried sheâd noticed. âNo problem.â
She doesnât invite him in.
She doesnât step aside or gesture toward the doorway. She thanks him again and closes the door gently, firmly, like a boundary drawn in pencil but no less real for it.
Steve never pushes.
He never asks how sheâs sleeping. Never asks about Chrissyâs yard. Never asks about the fire, the walking, the rumors that seem to follow her like static.
He just⊠shows up.
Always with a reason.
Always with an exit.
What Donna noticesâweeks in, when the pattern becomes impossible to ignoreâis where he parks.
At first, the Beemer had been right out front. Easy. Obvious. A statement.
Now, itâs farther down the street.
Still visible if youâre looking for itâbut not close enough to feel like surveillance. Not close enough to make it seem like heâs waiting, or watching, or bracing for something to happen.
He gives her space before she has to ask for it.
That matters more than if heâd stayed.
It matters more than any speech or defense or loud declaration of concern. Because Donna has spent months being watchedâby neighbors, by teachers, by kids who whisper her name like itâs a diagnosis.
Steve Harrington choosing not to watch her feels like trust.
Inside the car, driving away, Steve keeps his eyes on the road and lets out a breath he didnât realize heâd been holding.
He wants to do more.
Wants to say the right thing, fix the wrong ones, stand closer than heâs been invited to stand. But heâs learningâslowly, awkwardlyâthat trust isnât built by showing up loudly.
Itâs built by showing up quietly. By letting someone decide when youâre allowed closer. And for now, that distance is exactly where Donna Henderson needs him to be.
By April, the snow is mostly gone.
Whatâs left is mud and grit and the soft, unavoidable truth of things continuing whether anyone feels ready or not. School settles into its rhythms again. Bells ring. Homework piles up. Physical therapy becomes a line item on Donna Hendersonâs calendar instead of an emergency.
Steve Harrington becomes part of that routine by default.
The first time Nancy canât drive her, she says it like itâs no big dealâlike the words arenât carefully rehearsed.
âSteve said he could,â Nancy adds quickly, eyes darting between them. âIf thatâs okay. I mean. If not, thatâs cool. Totally cool.â
Donna looks at Steve.
Steve looks at the floor.
âItâs no problem,â he says. âOnly if you want.â
She nods. âOkay.â
And just like that, itâs decided.
They donât talk much in the car at first.
The Beemer hums beneath them, familiar now in a way Donna doesnât quite trust yet. Steve keeps the radio low, a classic rock station bleeding softly through the speakers. Donna watches the trees blur past the window, counts telephone poles, tracks her own breathing.
Silence isnât awkward.
Itâs careful.
After a few rides, Steve reaches for the dial.
âNope,â Donna says immediately.
He freezes mid-motion. âWhat?â
âThat one,â she says, pointing. âThat songâs terrible.â
Steve squints at the radio. âThatâs Tom Petty.â
âExactly.â
He scoffs, twisting the dial. âYou have no taste.â
She snorts before she can stop herself, reaching for the radio dial.
âOkay. No,â she says, already twisting the knob. âIf weâre doing a soundtrack, weâre doing it right.â
Steve blinks. âHeyââ
The static crackles once, twiceâThen a guitar cuts through.
Donna settles back against the seat as Pat Benatar fills the car, sharp and unapologetic, the chorus hitting with just enough bite to feel earned.
Steve glances at her. âIs this⊠Pat Benatar?â
She arches a brow. âYou know who that is?â
âI meanâyeah. My mom plays her sometimes.â He hesitates. âI just didnât think you were a Benatar person.â
Donna exhales through her nose, almost amused. âI donât look like one?â
âNo,â he says quickly. Then softer, more honest, âI just didnât know.â
She considers that for a second. Then shrugs.
âShe doesnât apologize for being loud,â Donna says. âOr angry. Or complicated.â A beat. âI like that.â
Steve nods slowly, eyes back on the road. He doesnât argue. Doesnât joke. Just listens.
The song builds.
Donna watches the windshield instead of him, fingers tapping faintly against her thigh in time with the beat. For the first time since getting into the car, her shoulders easeâjust a little.
After a moment, Steve says, almost to himself,
ââŠThis is actually really good.â
Donna smiles, small and sideways.
âTold you.â
He doesnât reach to change the station.
And Donna noticesâbecause she notices everything nowâthat he lets the song finishâis what Steve doesnât do.
He never asks about Chrissy Cunninghamâs yard.
Not once.
He never asks about the blood on her sock, or the mud on her hands, or the way her body moved when it shouldnât have been able to. He doesnât bring up the whispers or the rumors or the way people stare like theyâre waiting for her to do something wrong.
He lets it stay where it happened.
In the past.
One afternoon, after physical therapy runs longer than expected, Donna sinks into the passenger seat and closes her eyes.
Just for a second.
The car starts moving. The radio hums. Steve drives.
When they pull into her driveway, the engine idles.
Steve glances over.
Donna is asleep.
Not lightlyâher breathing is deep, even. Her head tilted toward the window, hair brushing the glass. Her body finally, finally at rest.
Steve doesnât wake her.
He doesnât clear his throat or tap the steering wheel or pretend he needs something from the glove compartment.
He waits.
The minutes stretch.
Donna dreams of nothing.
When she wakes, disoriented, the sun has shifted. The car is still running. Steveâs hands rest loose on the wheel, eyes forward like he hasnât moved at all.
âOh,â she says, embarrassed. âSorry.â
Steve shakes his head. âItâs fine.â
âHow long was I out?â
He shrugs. âLong enough.â
She nods, strangely moved by that answer. He waits until sheâs steady before cutting the engine. Neither of them mentions it. But the waiting stays with Donna.
Filed away. Quiet. Important.
Because waiting, sheâs learning, is its own kind of care.
And Steve Harrington seems to understand that instinctivelyâwhether he knows it yet or not.
By May, the air changes.
Spring settles into Hawkins with the kind of confidence that feels undeservedâsunlight lingering too long, grass growing back over places that should still hurt. School lets up just enough to be dangerous. Expectations soften. Everyone pretends things are fine.
Donna Henderson stops sleeping.
Not all at once. Not dramatically.
Just⊠less.
She lies in bed listening to the house breathe, waiting for the moment her body decides to betray her again. Waiting for dreams that feel more like directions than memories. Waiting to wake up somewhere she doesnât recognize.
One afternoon, Steve drives her home from physical therapy and doesnât turn the radio on at all.
They sit in the quiet for a block longer than necessary.
âI donât like falling asleep,â Donna says suddenly.
Steve doesnât look at her. âYeah?â
âIâm scared I wonât wake up where I started.â She keeps her eyes on the dashboard. âOr that I wonât wake up at all.â
Steve nods once. No questions. No why. No what happened.
Just acceptance.
âYou can call me,â he says after a moment. âIf it gets bad. Even if itâs stupid late.â
She swallows. âYou donât mean that.â
âI do.â
She nods like she believes him. She doesnât. But the offer stays.
A few days later, it happens by accident.
Theyâre in Steveâs kitchenâhomework spread out between them because Nancy âforgotâ to come over. Donna is fidgeting, restless energy buzzing under her skin. She flips a scrap of paper between her fingers while Steve roots through the fridge.
The paper blackens.
Just the corner.
A faint curl of smoke lifts into the air.
Donna freezes.
Steve turns.
He sees it.
The burn mark. The heat shimmering faintly where it shouldnât be.
For half a second, her heart stops.
Then Steve does something extraordinary.
He doesnât react.
He doesnât ask.
He doesnât step back.
He walks to the window and opens it, letting the spring air sweep in and carry the smoke away. Then he grabs another piece of paper and hands it to her like nothing happened.
âWindow sticks,â he says casually. âDad never fixes anything.â
Donna stares at him.
âYou saw that,â she says.
âYeah.â
âAnd youâre notââ Her voice cracks. âYouâre not freaked out?â
He shrugs. âYou looked freaked out enough for both of us.â
Something in her chest loosens. Just a fraction. They go back to their homework. The burned paper sits in the trash, unremarked.
Donna never calls him.
Not once.
But sometimes, when the fear gets loud and the house feels wrong and sleep feels like a trap, she remembers that he said she could.
By June, summer arrives like it doesnât know what itâs interrupting.
The air turns warm in that lazy, unearned wayâsunlight lingering past dinner, cicadas already rehearsing for August. Lawns get cut. Windows get opened. Hawkins starts behaving like itâs safe again. Like the worst thing anyone has to worry about is boredom.
Donna gets her cast off on a Tuesday.
Thereâs no ceremony. No applause. Just a quiet appointment room and a nurse who smiles too brightly as she unwraps months of immobilization. When Donna steps outside the physical therapy building, it feels like crossing a threshold sheâs been staring at for a long time.
Her walk is careful. Intentional. A little uneven.
No crutches. No white plaster. Just her legâpale, newly exposed, still learning how to belong to her again.
Steve sees her before she reaches the curb.
He straightens instinctively, like heâs been caught doing something he shouldnâtâwaiting.
âDonna?â The surprise in his voice is real. Unpolished.
She grins, small and a little shy, then lifts her arms out to her sides as if presenting herself. âSurprise. No more crutches. They took my cast off.â
Dustinâs eyebrows shoot up. His gaze flicks from her leg to Steve, then back again. He elbows Steve hard in the ribs. âWell? Say something. This is a medical miracle.â
Steve blinks, then smiles, eyes snapping back to Donnaâs leg like it might vanish if he doesnât keep checking. âThatâsâwow. Thatâs really great.â He hesitates, softening. âHow does it feel?â
Donna rocks gently on her heels, testing the ground. âWeird. Like Iâm about to tip over any second.â She shrugs. âBut I think thatâs just my body catching up.â
Dustin clears his throat loudly, suddenly very invested in the nearby gas station. âOkay, Iâm gonna go celebrate by getting snacks.â He points between them. âDonât make it weird.â
Then heâs gone, bounding across the street, two steps at a time, leaving behind a quiet that settles too fast, too thick.
Steve gestures awkwardly toward a row of benches outside the building. âYou wanna sit? OrâuhâI can grab you oneââ
âIâm good,â Donna says. She doesnât move right away. Lingers. Then exhales like sheâs been holding something back. âI just wanted to⊠say thanks.â
He frowns. âFor what?â
âFor being patient,â she says softly. âYou didnât push. You didnât ask me to be okay before I was. You just⊠stayed.â
Steve rubs the back of his neck, embarrassed, eyes drifting to the floor. âGuess Iâm good at standing around.â
She laughsâquiet, real. It catches them both off guard, like a sound neither of them expected to hear again so easily.
Later, Steve takes her and Dustin for milkshakes. The ridiculous kind with too much whipped cream and neon cherries, the kind that feel almost rebellious just by existing. They sit on the hood of the Beemer, the metal still warm, the engine ticking as it cools. Music drifts faintly from another car, something tinny and summer-wrong.
Donna laughs againâlouder this time. Sharper. Unfiltered.
It surprises her.
It surprises Steve.
For a moment, it almost feels like normal.
Almost.
As they head back to the car, a voice cuts across the parking lot.
âHey! Itâs Demented Donna!â
The words hit like a thrown rock.
Donna freezes.
Steve doesnât turn. Doesnât square his shoulders. Doesnât rise into anything loud or heroic.
He just looks at her and asks, quietly, âYou wanna leave?â
She nods.
They get into the car. The door shuts. The engine starts.
No spectacle. No defense. No performance. Just an exit.
As the Beemer pulls away, Donna watches the lights blur past the window and realizes something she didnât know she needed to learn:
He isnât trying to save her. Heâs letting her choose when to go. And somehow, that feels safer than anything else.
July arrives without asking permission.
Itâs hot in that way that makes Hawkins feel falsely alive â lawns cut too short, pools uncovered, radios playing with the windows down. Summer pretending nothing ever went wrong.
Steve invites everyone on a Thursday.
He does it casually, like itâs no big thing. A pool day. Nothing fancy. Just people he trusts. Nancy, Joanna, Mike and the boys. And Donna.
He doesnât call it a party.
He doesnât say at my house out loud, but the words sit there anyway.
Donna hesitates when he asks.
Itâs subtle â just a half-second pause on the line, a breath caught and smoothed over before it can turn into something else.
âYeah,â she says. âOkay.â
Steve smiles to himself after he hangs up.
Saturday afternoon comes bright and loud.
The pool water glitters. Someoneâs left the gate open so the music drifts out into the street. Mike and the boys argue over turns off the diving board like the world hasnât tried to end twice already. Joanna dangles her feet in the water, flicking droplets at Nancy, who pretends to be annoyed and isnât.
Steve checks the driveway.
Nothing.
He tells himself itâs early.
Donnaâs probably just running late.
He checks again twenty minutes later.
Then again.
By the third time, he stops pretending heâs not waiting.
Nancy notices but doesnât say anything.
Joanna does â quietly, later, when Steve pretends heâs looking for sunscreen he already found.
âYou think sheâs okay?â she asks.
âYeah,â Steve says, automatically. âProbably.â
But the word doesnât land.
He calls Donna once.
No answer.
He doesnât call again.
Donna stands in her room with her swimsuit folded on the bed.
July sunlight pours through the window, too bright, too warm. The air smells like cut grass and asphalt and something almost hopeful.
Her phone rests in her hand.
Steveâs house.
The thought hits her harder than she expects â not like a memory, not like a thought she can reason with. It lands in her chest, sharp and immediate, like her body has already decided for her.
Her breath goes shallow.
Her room tilts just slightly, like the floor isnât where it should be.
She closes her eyes and sees it anyway â the hallway, the panic, the cold certainty that no one was coming in time.
Her leg aches. Not pain. Memory.
She tries to move.
Her body refuses.
âI canât,â she whispers.
Not today.
She sits on the edge of the bed until the moment passes without resolving itself. She doesnât call. She doesnât text. She lets the silence stand.
Steve is cleaning up when Donna finally shows.
The sun is lower now, the party thinned out and quieted. Towels are piled by the back door, still damp. The pool cover hangs half-pulled, like someone gave up.
The doorbell rings.
Steveâs heart jumps before he can stop it.
Donna stands on the porch, arms crossed tight, eyes fixed just past him like she doesnât trust herself to look inside yet.
âHey,â he says.
âHey.â
She doesnât step forward.
âI didnât come earlier,â she says carefully. âI thought I could. I justââ She stops. Swallows. âI couldnât.â
Steve nods once.
âOkay.â
No why.
No disappointed smile.
No pressure to explain the thing she hasnât figured out how to name yet.
Her shoulders drop just a fraction.
âI didnât want you to think it was you,â she adds quietly.
âI didnât,â he says.
That makes her look at him.
They sit on opposite ends of the couch, the space between them intentional, respected. The house is quieter now â not empty, just still.
After a long stretch, Donna asks, barely above a murmur, âWhy do you still help me?â
Steve doesnât answer right away.
âBecause youâre here,â he says simply.
Nothing heroic. Nothing heavy.
She nods, throat tight.
âI donât sleep much either,â he adds, eyes still forward. âNot since we fought that thing at Joannaâs house.â
She doesnât ask why.
She understands.
They sit there as July hums outside â cicadas starting early, the day slipping into evening â neither of them trying to fix the other, neither pretending this is easier than it is.
Shared silence settles in, gentle and unforced. Not healing. Not resolution.
Just presence.
And for July, thatâs enough.
August settles over Hawkins like a held breath.
The heat is heavier now â thick, unmoving, the kind that makes everything feel suspended in place. Cicadas scream from the trees outside, relentless and constant, as if trying to drown out anything else that might surface.
Donna sits at the kitchen table.
Her pencil scrapes softly against paper, the sound too small for the room itâs in. Her notebook lies open in front of her, pages filled with half-sketches and abandoned lines â shapes that never quite become anything. Her leg rests propped on the chair across from her, positioned carefully, deliberately. It works now. Mostly. But she still treats it like something that might betray her if she stops paying attention.
She wears her dadâs sweatshirt again â oversized, sleeves swallowing her hands, the fabric worn thin and soft from years of use. It smells faintly like laundry detergent and something familiar she canât name.
The house is quiet.
Too quiet.
The back door creaks open.
Donna doesnât look up.
âDustinâs upstairs,â she says, voice flat, neutral. Not unkind. Just guarded. âWorking on⊠something loud.â
Steve steps inside, a cardboard box tucked under one arm. The scent of outside comes with him â grass, dirt, summer. He pauses just inside the door, like heâs checking the temperature of the room before committing to it.
âI figured,â he says lightly.
He sets the box down on the counter but doesnât head upstairs. Instead, he pours himself a cup of coffee, leans back against the counter, and lets the silence stretch.
Donna feels him watching her without looking.
âWhatâre you working on?â he asks eventually.
âNothing important,â she says, closing the notebook a little too quickly. The pencil snaps down against the paper with a quiet click. She folds her arms, tucking her hands out of sight.
Steve doesnât call her on it.
He takes a sip of coffee, grimaces. âStill terrible.â
That gets her attention.
She glances up despite herself. âThen why do you keep drinking it?â
He shrugs. âFeels like something adults do.â
She snorts before she can stop herself. The sound is quick, surprised â gone as soon as it appears.
Steve smiles, like heâs cataloging it for later.
âI took an art class once,â he says casually. âThought I was gonna be great. Turns out I mostly just drew cars.â
Donna arches a brow. âLet me guess. You quit.â
âObviously.â
She shakes her head, the corner of her mouth lifting just enough to count.
The quiet shifts â not tense anymore, but alert. Like something fragile has been set down between them.
Steve watches her pencil hover uselessly above the page. âDustin says you used to dance. With Nancy and Joanna and-â
The pencil stills.
âThat was a long time ago,â Donna says, eyes fixed on the paper.
âStill,â Steve says, careful now. âThatâs⊠impressive.â
She exhales sharply. âIt doesnât matter.â
He pulls out the chair across from her but doesnât sit right away. Waits.
âWhy not?â he asks, not pressing â just asking.
Donnaâs grip tightens around the pencil. She gestures once toward her leg, sharp and frustrated. âBecause loving something doesnât mean you get to keep it.â
The words hang there, rawer than she intended.
Steve sits slowly, like any sudden movement might spook the moment. âYou donât have to decide that yet.â
Her eyes snap up. âYes, I do.â
He meets her gaze evenly. âNo. You donât.â
Silence stretches again â longer this time.
She looks away first.
âYou really donât give up,â she mutters.
He shrugs. âI wait.âThat lands differently.
She wakes up outside three nights later.
The grass is cool against her palms. Damp. Her skin prickles with it. She blinks up at the sky, stars blurred and unfamiliar, and for one terrible second she doesnât know where she is.
Her leg tingles â numb, buzzing.
She doesnât scream.
She breathes.
A shape moves at the edge of her vision.
Steve is sitting a few feet away, knees drawn up, arms resting loosely on them. He doesnât rush her. Doesnât say her name. Just⊠waits.
âHow long?â she asks quietly.
âNot long,â he says. âYou were close this time.â
She swallows. âI didnât feel it.â
âI know.â
Her fingers curl into the grass, grounding. âIâm scared.â
âI know.â
She waits for panic. For questions. For him to make it bigger than it is.
He doesnât.
He just shifts closer when she nods, careful not to touch her leg until sensation returns. When it does, she exhales shakily, relief washing through her.
âThank you,â she says.
âFor what?â
âFor not freaking out.â
He smiles faintly. âDoesnât seem helpful.â
She believes him. Thatâs the terrifying part. She trusted him with the scariest version of herself. And he stayed. August holds them there â not healed, not fixed â but choosing, again and again, to meet each other where they are.
Quietly.
On purpose.
September arrives gently.
Not like a beginning. More like a settling.
The heat loosens its grip on Hawkins just enough to make breathing feel intentional again. The days are still warm, but the mornings carry a promise of coolness, of change waiting just out of sight. Summer hasnât ended so much as itâs agreed to step back.
Donna walks differently now.
Itâs subtle. Easy to miss if youâre not paying attention.
Her stride is longer. Less guarded. She doesnât brace herself before stairs anymore. She doesnât count her steps under her breath. The tension that once lived permanently in her shoulders has softened, inch by inch, without announcement.
Steve notices.
He doesnât say anything.
He doesnât ask how her leg feels or point out the way she no longer favors it when sheâs tired. He doesnât mark the moment with words, because he knows better now. Heâs learned that progress doesnât want witnesses â it wants permission.
So he lets her notice it herself.
She does, eventually.
It happens one afternoon when theyâre walking back to the car after dropping Dustin off. Donna reaches the Beemer first without realizing sheâs done it. She stops short, keys dangling uselessly in her hand, the realization blooming slowly across her face.
Steve watches from a few steps behind.
She looks down at her legs like theyâve betrayed her by cooperating.
Then she laughs.
Not loud. Not dramatic.
Just⊠surprised.
He smiles, but keeps his mouth shut.
Thatâs how this works now.
Theyâre driving when the moment finally comes.
Windows down. Late summer air pouring in, carrying the smell of cut grass and hot asphalt and something fading. The radio is low â background noise more than music. The sky is streaked with orange and pink, the sun hovering just above the trees like it hasnât decided whether to leave yet.
Steve has one hand on the wheel, relaxed. Donnaâs elbow rests against the open window, fingers slicing lazily through the air.
Sheâs quiet.
Not withdrawn. Just thinking.
Steve doesnât rush her.
Finally, she speaks.
âIf something happens againâŠâ
He glances at her, but doesnât interrupt.
âIf I wake up somewhere,â she continues. âIf I lose time. If itâs bad.â Her jaw tightens, just a fraction. âI want you to know first.â
Steve nods.
No hesitation.
No questions.
âOkay.â
Thatâs it.
No promises about fixing it. No reassurances he canât guarantee. Just agreement â solid and real.
Donna exhales, something easing out of her chest that she didnât realize sheâd been holding. She nods once, satisfied. The car keeps moving. The road stretches ahead of them, unremarkable and steady and safe enough for now.
Trust doesnât arrive like fire.
It builds like heat â slow, controlled, and impossible to ignore once itâs there.
Not the way they are nowâquiet, winter-bare, stripped down to branches and mudâbut the way they exist somewhere else. Thick. Breathing. Alive in a way that presses too close.
The Upside Down never announces itself.
It just⊠overlaps.
She is standing at the edge of the trees. She knows this place. She doesnât remember how she got here, but her body does. Her foot sinks into soft earth. Wet. Familiar.
Her leg doesnât hurt.
That should scare her.
It doesnât.
She steps forward.
Branches scrape at her arms, but she doesnât react. Her hands move automaticallyâpushing, parting, navigating obstacles before sheâs even aware theyâre there. Her breathing is slow. Even. Not asleep. Not awake.
Something in her chest hums.
A pulse.
A rhythm.
Her cast is still there, wrapped white and clean around her lower leg, but it doesnât slow her. The muscles above it compensate, tightening unnaturally. Her weight shifts wrongâtoo balanced, too precise. She shouldnât be able to walk like this.
She does anyway.
The trees thin.
Lights bloom ahead.
Suburban. Clean. Wrong.
She steps out of the woods and into a yard she recognizes.
Chrissy Cunninghamâs.
The lawn is perfectly trimmed despite the cold, the porch light glowing warm and welcoming. The house looks like something out of a magazineâsafe, untouched by anything real.
Donna walks straight across the grass.
Her bare hands sink into the soil near the edge of the flowerbed, fingers curling into damp earth. She doesnât know why. She doesnât question it. Her palms come up dark with mud, nails rimmed black.
She kneels.
Her cast drags through the dirt.
Something sharp presses against her ankle.
She doesnât feel pain.
She feels⊠pressure. Resistance. Like the world pushing back.
She pulls her foot free.
The sock beneath the cast is torn.
Blood seeps through slowly, dark against white.
Still, she doesnât wake.
Inside the house, laughter drifts faintly through the walls.
A sleepover.
Courtney Wilcox sits cross-legged on Chrissyâs bed, nails painted fresh, hair curled just right. Brie and Tanya sprawl nearby, surrounded by magazines and half-empty soda cans. Someone is mid-sentenceâsomething cruel and speculative.
ââI swear, my mom says Donna Henderson is, like, cursed,â Brie says, laughing. âLike bad things just follow her.â
Courtney smirks. âI heard she didnât survive the woods at all. That whatever came back isnât really her.â
A knock sounds.
Not at the door.
At the window.
Soft.
Wet.
Three heads turn.
Chrissy frowns. âWhat was that?â
Another sound.
Scrape.
Courtney moves first, irritation flashing across her face as she hops off the bed and yanks the curtain asideâAnd freezes.
Donna Henderson stands in the yard.
Barefoot.
Cast streaked with mud.
Hands black with dirt.
One sock soaked red.
Her eyes are open.
Empty.
The porch light casts her in harsh yellow, turning her into something unrealâsomething staged. Her posture is wrong, too still, like a mannequin placed carefully in the middle of the lawn.
Brie screams.
Chrissy stumbles backward, hitting the edge of her dresser. Tanyaâs hands fly to her mouth.
Courtney doesnât move.
She stares.
This is it, she thinks. This is what everyoneâs been whispering about.
Donna tilts her head slightly, like she hears something they donât.
ThenâShe blinks.
Once.
Twice.
The world rushes back in all at once.
Donnaâs breath catches painfully in her chest. Her heart slams so hard it makes her dizzy. She looks downâNo crutches.
Mud caked into her palms.
Blood on her sock.
Her stomach drops.
âOh,â she whispers.
The word comes out small. Human.
The porch light flickers.
Courtney laughs.
Not loud. Not hysterical.
Vindicated.
âSee?â she says softly, turning back to the others. âI told you.â
Donnaâs head snaps up.
She takes an unsteady step backâand nearly falls as pain finally crashes into her leg, white-hot and unbearable. She collapses to her knees in the grass, gasping, clutching at her cast as sensation returns all at once.
Too late.
Too real.
Too witnessed.
Lights flick on in neighboring houses.
Doors open.
Voices rise.
By the time Donna is helped to her feetâby strangers, by adults who look at her like sheâs a problem that needs managingâthe story has already started writing itself.
She doesnât remember walking here.
But something did.
Something that didnât need her permission.
As sheâs led away, shivering and exposed, she catches Courtneyâs eye one last time through the window.
Courtney smiles.
And Donna understands, with sickening clarity:
It doesnât matter how many people Joanna scares.
Donna Henderson will always be Demented Donna.
And the Upside Down knows exactly where to find her.
Steve Harrington hears the shouting before he sees the lights.
It cuts through the quiet of the street like something breakingâvoices raised, porch lights snapping on one by one, the low murmur of adults trying to sound calm while absolutely not being calm. He steps out onto his front porch in socked feet, jacket half-zipped, heart already thudding with a bad kind of familiarity.
Thatâs when he sees her.
Donna Henderson stands in Chrissy Cunninghamâs front yard like a crime scene no one bothered to tape off.
Mud streaks her hands. Her cast is filthy, smeared dark from knee to ankle. One sock is soaked through with blood, the red already turning brown in the cold air. Sheâs shakingâhard enough that Steve can see it from across the streetâand the look on her face is worse than the mess.
Itâs empty.
Not blank. Not dazed.
Empty like someone who woke up in the wrong place and canât remember how the hell they got there.
Steve doesnât think.
He just moves.
âHey,â he says, stepping off the curb and crossing the street fast, palms open. âHey, itâs okay. Iâve got her.â
Mrs. Cunningham looks relieved and suspicious all at once. âSteve, we were just about to callââ
âI live right there,â he says, nodding back toward his house like that explains everything. âIâll take her. She shouldnât be standing.â
One of the girlsâBrie, maybeâsnorts. âOf course you will.â
Steve doesnât look at her.
He looks at Donna.
Her eyes flick up at the sound of his voice, recognition clicking slowly into place. She swallows, lips parting like sheâs about to apologize for existing.
âSteve?â she asks quietly.
âYeah,â he says, softer now. âIâm here.â
He steps closer, careful not to crowd her. When he offers his arm, she hesitatesâthen takes it. Her grip is weak but desperate, fingers curling into his sleeve like heâs the only solid thing left.
Someone laughs behind them.
âGuess Demented Donnaâs got herself another babysitter.â
Steve stops.
He turns just enough to look back at the girls on the porch, his expression flat and sharp in a way that makes the air shift.
Steve stops.
He doesnât spin around fast. Doesnât flare. Just turns slowly, one hand still steadying Donna, expression calm in a way that makes the air tighten.
âSheâs hurt,â he says. Calm. Even. Dangerous.
His eyes sweep over the girls on the porch once â not angry, just unimpressed.
âYou done embarrassing yourselves,â he adds, voice cool, âor do you wanna keep going?â
No one answers.
Steve nods once, like thatâs what he expected, and turns back to Donna.
He guides Donna across the street, slow and steady, shielding her body with his own without making a show of it. She leans heavier with every step, like the adrenaline that kept her upright is finally burning out.
They reach his front porch.
Donna stops.
Freezes.
Her fingers tighten on his sleeve.
âIââ she starts, then falters. Her eyes lock on the front door like it might open on its own and swallow her whole. âI canât go in there.â
Steve follows her gaze. His house looks the same as it always doesâclean, warm, safe in the way expensive things are safe. It suddenly feels too close. Too familiar.
âThatâs okay,â he says immediately. âWe donât have to.â
She exhales shakily, relief flickering across her face before fear rushes back in to replace it. âCan youââ She swallows. âCan you just⊠take me home?â
Steve hesitates.
Not because he doesnât want to.
Because heâs looking at her hands. The mud. The blood. The way sheâs shaking so badly she can barely stand.
And because his Beemer is parked right there.
Pristine. Leather seats. Light interior.
He pictures the mess sheâll leave behind.
Then he looks at Donna again.
Her eyes are glassy. Haunted. Still trying to figure out how she ended up in someone elseâs yard without her crutches.
âYeah,â he says, decision made. âYeah, of course.â
He opens the passenger door and helps her in, carefully lifting her leg so the cast doesnât catch. Mud streaks across the seat. Blood dots the floor mat.
Steve doesnât even flinch.
He closes the door gently, walks around the car, and slides into the driverâs seat.
As he pulls away from the curb, Donna finally speaks again.
âWeâll figure it out,â he says, even though he has no idea how. âOkay?â
She nods, staring out the window as the streetlights blur past.
The car smells like dirt and cold air and something wrong.
Steve drives anyway.
Because whatever happened to Donna Henderson tonightââitâs already been seen.
And the least he can do is make sure she gets home.
The cabin smells like peanut butter and old wood and something warm that never quite goes away.
It isnât one thing. Itâs layers â bread toasted too long earlier in the day, the faint bitterness of coffee thatâs been reheated one time too many, pine needles tracked in on boots and slowly crushed into the floorboards. The smell of safety isnât clean. Itâs lived-in.
Joanna sits cross-legged on the floor, the Sorry! board spread between her and El. The cardboard corners are bent, the colors faded just enough to prove Hopper didnât buy it new. Red and blue pieces scatter across the board in no particular order, one card lying upside down near the edge like it lost interest halfway through the rules.
Neither of them fixes it.
El squints at the board, her brow furrowing in concentration. The tip of her tongue peeks out slightly, a habit she doesnât know she has. Her fingers hover over the pieces like they might move if she thinks hard enough.
âYou cheated,â she says finally.
Joanna snorts. âI did not.â
âYou moved two,â El insists, tapping the space with one careful finger. âIt says one.â
Joanna leans forward, squinting dramatically, like sheâs never seen numbers before in her life. She cranes her neck, tilts her head, then looks up with a grin thatâs all mischief and zero remorse.
âOkay,â she admits. âYeah. Maybe a little.â
Elâs lips twitch.
Not a full smile. Not yet.
âThatâs not allowed,â El says, but thereâs no heat in it. No accusation. Just fact.
âThen punish me,â Joanna says solemnly, nudging one of Elâs pieces forward. âSend me back to start. I deserve it.â
El considers this.
She really considers it â eyes tracking the board, fingers curling slowly around a card, jaw set in a way that feels very serious for a board game with cartoon pawns.
Then she reaches out and moves Joannaâs piece.
All the way back.
Joanna gasps, clutching her chest. âAbsolutely ruthless. No mercy. I raised you better than this.â
El watches her flop backward onto the floor like sheâs been struck by a sniper shot. For a second, El just stares â like sheâs not sure if this is allowed either.
Then she laughs.
Itâs quick. Sharp. Surprised. Like the sound slipped out without asking permission first.
Joanna props herself up on her elbows, the laugh settling warm and heavy in her chest. It feels earned. Not borrowed. Not forced.
She reaches behind her, digging into her bag, fingers brushing over notebooks and loose change before finding what sheâs looking for. She pulls out a small stack of cassette tapes, bundled together with a rubber band stretched thin from overuse.
Each tape is labeled in her messy handwriting.
EL â SIDE AEL â SIDE BDONâT SKIP TRACK 4
Elâs eyes widen immediately.
âFor me?â she asks.
Joanna nods, suddenly a little shy about it. âYeah. I, uh⊠made some new ones.â
El takes them carefully, like they might disappear if she moves too fast. She turns one over in her hands, thumb brushing the label again and again, grounding herself in the texture.
âWhatâs on them?â she asks.
âA lot of stuff,â Joanna says. âSome music you liked. Some things I think you might like.â She shrugs. âOne of them is just⊠noise. When your head wonât shut up.â
El looks up at her.
âYou thought about that?â
Joanna doesnât hesitate. âAll the time.â
Something soft settles between them.
El scoots closer, shoulder brushing Joannaâs arm, still holding the tapes like theyâre fragile. âHopper says I can listen after dinner.â
Joanna smiles. âGood. Tell me which ones you hate.â
El nods solemnly. âI will.â
The board game sits forgotten between them. Outside, the woods press close. Inside, Joanna reaches over and turns the radio down just a little â instinctive, careful, like sheâs learned where Elâs comfort lives now.
Steve isnât here.
Donna isnât here.
And thatâs the point.
Joanna glances at El lining up her pieces again with deliberate care, grounding herself in small rules and bright colors.
This is where sheâs supposed to be.
El looks up. âYour turn.â
Joanna smiles, picks up a cardâIt doesnât go quiet all at once. It clicks and exhales, wood adjusting to temperature, the stove ticking faintly even though it hasnât been on in hours. Outside, the trees creak and whisper to one another, a language El doesnât understand but knows isnât meant for her.
She sits back on her heels, lining her Sorry! pieces into a neat row beside the board. Red. Blue. Red. Blue. Order matters. It makes the inside of her chest feel less crowded.
Joanna watches her do it without comment.
Thatâs new.
Most people try to fill the quiet. Joanna used to, tooâjokes tumbling over themselves, noise as armor. But lately sheâs learned the difference between silence that hurts and silence that holds.
This one holds.
El reaches for another card. She doesnât look at it right away. âYouâre different,â she says instead.
Joanna stiffens only a little. âDifferent how?â
El frowns, searching for the right word. âQuieter.â
Joanna lets out a breath thatâs almost a laugh. âYeah. I guess I am.â
âYou donât look at the door anymore,â El adds.
Joannaâs eyes flick, instinctive, to the cabin door. Then back to El. âI didnât realize I was doing that.â
âYou were,â El says simply.
Joanna nods. She believes her.
Before, every sound outside had pulled at herâboots on gravel, engines in the distance, the phantom expectation that someone would knock and ask her to explain herself. Or worse: ask her to leave.
Now, she stays.
Because El is here.
Because El needs someone who will sit still with her and not try to fix the unfixable.
Joanna flips her card. âThree,â she announces. âThat feels right.â
El moves her piece accordingly, precise. She pauses, then looks up again. âHopper says you canât come every day.â
Joannaâs smile is careful. Measured. âYeah.â
âHe says itâs not safe.â
âIt isnât,â Joanna agrees.
El tilts her head. âBut you come anyway.â
Joanna meets her gaze. Doesnât dodge it. âTwice a week.â
âThatâs not a lot,â El says.
âNo,â Joanna admits. âIt isnât.â
Elâs fingers tighten around the edge of the board. âI donât like when people decide things for me.â
Joannaâs chest aches at that. âMe neither.â
They sit with that truth between them, heavy and shared.
El looks down at the cassette tapes again, stacked neatly beside her knee. âYou made these for me,â she says. Not a question.
âYes.â
âYou didnât make any for⊠them.â
Joanna knows who she means without El saying it.
âNo,â she says quietly. âI didnât.â
El nods. This is acceptable.
She hesitates, then asks, âAre you mad at them?â
Joanna considers the question seriously. âI donât think so. I think Iâm⊠tired.â
âTired people leave,â El says.
Joannaâs throat tightens. âSometimes.â
Elâs eyes sharpen. âYouâre not leaving.â
âNo,â Joanna says immediately. Too fast. She slows herself. âNo. Iâm not.â
El watches her face, searching for cracks. Sheâs good at that. Sheâs learned how to tell when adults are lyingâwhen words donât match whatâs happening underneath them.
Joanna passes the test.
El relaxes back onto the floor, stretching her legs out in front of her. âHopper says normal is important.â
Joanna smiles faintly. âHeâs right.â
âI donât know what normal is,â El admits.
Joanna reaches out and nudges one of the game pieces with her fingertip. âNormal is⊠this. Boring games. Bad music. Snacks that are always the same.â
El thinks about this. âI like boring.â
âMe too.â
The radio hums softly in the background, barely loud enough to register. Joanna listens automatically, cataloging the sounds the way sheâs learned toâhow close they are, how intrusive, whether Elâs shoulders tense at any of them.
She reaches out and lowers the volume another notch.
El notices.
âYou do that,â El says.
Joanna freezes. âDo what?â
âYou make things smaller,â El explains. âSo they donât hurt.â
Joanna swallows. âI try.â
Elâs gaze drifts, unfocused for a moment. âPeople used to be loud in my head.â
Joanna doesnât speak. She knows better.
âSometimes they still are,â El continues. âWhen I dream.â
Joannaâs fingers curl against the floor. âDo you want to talk about it?â
El shakes her head. âNot yet.â
âOkay.â
A beat passes.
Then El says, very quietly, âI like when youâre here.â
Joannaâs vision blurs unexpectedly. She blinks it away before El can see. âI like being here.â
Outside, something moves through the treesâa deer, maybe. Or nothing at all. The cabin holds.
Somewhere else in Hawkins, Steve Harrington is scrubbing mud out of his car with hands that donât know how to stop shaking. Somewhere else, Donna Henderson is staring at her ceiling, afraid to sleep. Somewhere else, secrets are spilling and hardening into stories that wonât be kind.
But hereâHere is a board game with missing pieces. Cassette tapes labeled with care. A girl who was once alone learning how to be quiet without disappearing.
El picks up the deck again and hands it to Joanna. âYour turn.â
Joanna takes the cards, heart steady in a way it hasnât been in days.
This isnât escape.
Itâs alignment.
And for nowâItâs enough.
Steve pulls into the Henderson driveway with the headlights off.
He doesnât know why. Habit, maybe. Or instinct. The house is dark except for the soft glow of the living room window, curtains drawn halfway like someone forgot to finish closing them.
Donna hasnât said a word the entire ride.
She sits angled toward the passenger door, shoulders hunched, hands clenched in her lap. Mud has dried into dark cracks along her fingers. Her cast rests awkwardly on the floor mat, streaked brown and red, like evidence no oneâs bothered to collect yet.
Steve cuts the engine.
The quiet rushes in all at once.
âWeâre here,â he says gently.
Donna blinks, like the words have to travel a long way to reach her. She nods once. Then again, like sheâs reminding herself how.
The front door opens before Steve can get out.
Claudia Henderson stands on the porch in a sweater she definitely slept in, hair pulled back messily, worry written into every line of her face. She freezes when she sees Donna.
âOh my god,â she breathes.
Donna crumples at the sound of her voice.
âI donât remember walking,â she says immediately, words tumbling out. âI swear, I was asleep and then I was justâthere, and my leg didnât hurt and I didnâtââ
âHey,â Claudia says softly, already moving, already pulling the passenger door open. âItâs okay. Youâre home. Youâre safe.â
Steve steps back, letting her take over without question.
Claudia helps Donna out carefully, clucking under her breath when she sees the blood on her sock, the mud ground into the cast.
âWhat happened?â she asks Steve quietly as they guide Donna inside.
Steve shakes his head. âI donât know. She was⊠in Chrissy Cunninghamâs yard.â
Claudia goes still for half a second.
Then she nods. âOkay. Okay. Thank you for bringing her.â
Donna barely registers the transition from porch to hallway. Her weight sags heavier with every step, adrenaline finally draining away and leaving only pain and shock in its wake.
âIâm gonna get you cleaned up,â Claudia murmurs, steering her toward the bathroom. âThen weâll talk.â
Donnaâs fingers catch on the doorframe.
âSteve,â she says suddenly.
He looks up.
Her eyes are glassy but lucid now. Anchored.
âThank you.â
Something tightens in his chest. âAnytime.â
Claudia disappears into the bathroom with Donna, the door closing softly behind them.
Steve exhales.
ThenââSTEVE!â
Dustin barrels down the stairs like gravity personally offended him, socks sliding on the hardwood. He skids to a stop when he sees Steve in the hallway, eyes wide and frantic.
âOh thank god,â Dustin blurts. âOkay, so you brought her home, thatâs good, thatâs really good, because listenââ
âDustin,â Steve cuts in gently. âSlow down.â
Dustin clamps his mouth shut, inhales sharply, then explodes anyway.
âShe had fire powers,â he says.
Steve blinks. âShe what.â
âFire,â Dustin repeats, hands flying. âLike actual flames. Her blanket caught on fire and she justââ He gestures wildly, fingers curling. ââput it out. Without touching it. Like it listened to her.â
Steve stares at him.
âThatâs not funny,â he says slowly.
âIâm not joking,â Dustin insists. âThe alarm went off, everything was smoking, and then it justâstopped. And then tonight she shows up in Chrissyâs yard again without her crutches andââ
âHold on,â Steve says sharply. âAgain without her crutches?â
âYes!â Dustin says. âAnd she didnât even know how she got there. She was asleep. She sleepwalked.â
The word lands heavy.
Steve leans back against the wall, scrubbing a hand through his hair. He pictures Donna standing in that yard. Barefoot. Still.
âYouâre sure?â he asks.
âI swear,â Dustin says. âAnd she doesnât want me talking about it. Likeâat all. She made me promise. But then this happened and I figured you should know because you were there and also becauseââ His voice cracks slightly. ââthis isnât normal.â
âNo,â Steve agrees quietly. âItâs not.â
The bathroom door opens.
Steam spills into the hallway, carrying the scent of soap and shampoo and something scorched that hasnât quite washed away. Claudia steps out, closing the door behind her.
âSheâs in the shower,â she says softly. âIâm going to check her cast when sheâs done.â
Steve nods. âShe⊠she asked me to take her home instead of coming inside my place.â
Claudia looks at him, understanding dawning. âThank you.â
Steve shifts from foot to foot. âMrs. Henderson?â
She turns. âYes, Steven?â
âSheâs really scared,â he says, earnest and helpless. âLike⊠more than she lets on.â
Claudiaâs eyes soften. âI know.â
Steve glances toward the bathroom door, listening to the muffled sound of water hitting tile.
âBut sheâs also not alone,â he says, surprising himself with how certain it sounds.
Claudia meets his gaze.
âNo,â she agrees. âSheâs not.â
Upstairs, the shower runs.
Down the hall, two boys stand in the quiet, holding pieces of a truth too big to make sense of yet.
And somewhere between fire and sleep, Donna Henderson tries to wash the woods out of her hair â unaware that whatever followed her home doesnât need her awake to find her.
It clings to the room in a sour hazeâburnt fabric, scorched plastic, heat that refuses to dissipate, like the walls themselves are still holding their breath. Donna sits on the edge of her bed, the blanket gone, sheets twisted beneath her fingers. Her heart is still pounding hard enough to make her ears ring.
Her hands wonât stop shaking.
She stares at them like they donât belong to her. Like they might move again if she looks away.
In the doorway, Dustin hasnât moved an inch.
Heâs still clutching the fire extinguisher to his chest, knuckles white, mouth hanging openâcaught somewhere between holy shit and oh my god with no idea how to bridge the gap.
âDude,â he says again, breathless. âThat wasâdid you see that? You didnât evenâDonna, you didnât touch it.â
She doesnât look up.
âI donât know what happened,â she says quietly.
âYes you do,â Dustin blurts. âI meanânot, like, scientifically, butââ
âDustin.â
Her voice cuts clean through him.
He finally steps into the room.
Carefully. Like she might break. Or explode.
âYou put it out,â he says, eyes flicking between her hands and the blackened carpet. âYou justââ He lifts his own hands, mimicking her earlier motion, palms out. âWhoosh. Like it listened to you.â
Donnaâs stomach flips.
âI panicked,â she says. âThatâs all.â
Dustin shakes his head so hard his curls bounce. âNo, no, no. Panic doesnât do that.â
She looks up then, sharp. âStop.â
He freezes.
For half a second.
Then the words come tumbling out anyway.
âOkay, okay, I know this is gonna sound insane,â he says, backing up a step, hands raised in surrender even as excitement bleeds through his voice, âbut this is exactly how it starts. Likeâexactly.â
Heâs back thirty seconds later, arms full of X-Men comics, nearly tripping over himself as he spills back into the room and dumps them onto her bed. Pages fan openâbright, loud, wrong against the scorched sheets.
âOkay,â he says, flipping through frantically. âSoâtelekinesis. Thatâs this part.â He taps a panel where Jean lifts debris with her mind. âThatâs likeâwhat you already do. Moving stuff. Basic, entry-level mutant stuff.â
Donnaâs chest tightens.
âDustinââ
âBut this,â he says, flipping again, landing on a page where Jean is wreathed in fire, eyes blazing, power exploding outward, âthis is the Phoenix.â
He looks up at her, eyes shining.
âFire,â he whispers. âShe doesnât just move things. She becomes it.â
Donna doesnât look at the page.
Cold creeps through her veins, settling deep in her bones.
âThatâs not me,â she says immediately.
Dustin falters. âI meanâIâm not saying youâre gonna go cosmic or destroy planets or anything, butâDonna, this is huge.â
âI almost burned my room down.â
âBut you didnât,â he says quickly. âYou stopped it.â
âI didnât try to.â
âThatâs the point!â he insists. âIt reacted to you. Like it knew.â
Her breathing goes shallow.
She presses her palms into the mattress, grounding herself in the familiar texture. âI donât want this.â
Dustin blinks. âWhat?â
âI donât want to be⊠this,â she says, gesturing vaguely at the comics, the room, herself. âI donât want names for it. I donât want explanations.â
He opens his mouth. Closes it again.
âDonna,â he says more carefully, âthis could actually make things make sense.â
âNothing about this makes sense,â she snaps. âI died. I died, Dustin.â
The word drops between them like a weight.
He swallows. âYou didnât.â
âI stopped breathing,â she says. âI was gone. And now this is happening and youâre talking about comic books like that makes it better.â
He flinches.
âIâm just sayingâyouâre not alone,â he says. âElââ
âDonât.â
The word slices through the air, sharp enough to make him stop cold.
âIâm just sayingâyouâre not alone,â Dustin says, softer now, more careful. âI mean⊠stuff like this doesnât just happen to people for no reason.â
He swallows. âI justâI figured Joanna wouldâve said something. She always knows things before anyone else.â
Donnaâs head snaps up. âJoannaâŠShe doesnâtâshe doesnât talk about stuff like that.â
His shoulders slump. âIâm just trying to help.â
She laughs once. It comes out wrong. Hollow. Like it scraped on the way up.
âHelp feels like staring at me like Iâm radioactive,â she says. âHelp feels like people deciding what I am before I even get a chance to figure it out.â
âThatâs not what Iâm doing,â Dustin says quickly, panicked now.
âIt is,â Donna says. Her voice doesnât rise. Thatâs what makes it worse. âYouâre already looking at me like Iâm not just Donna anymore. Just like everyone else.â
Silence stretches.
The comics lie open between themâfire frozen mid-explosion on glossy paper.
âI need you to stop,â Donna says. Her voice is steadier now. Sharper. âI need you to not tell anyone. And I need you to notââ She gestures at the comics. ââdo this.â
Dustin nods immediately. âOkay. Yeah. I can do that.â
She doesnât soften.
âI mean it.â
âI wonât say anything,â he promises. âI swear.â
She believes him.
That doesnât help.
âCan you leave?â she asks.
He hesitates, then gathers the comics into a messy stack. âYeah. Okay.â
At the doorway, he pauses, glancing back. âYouâre still you. Okay?â
Donna doesnât answer.
The door clicks shut. She sits alone in the quiet, the room still warm with the memory of fire, staring at her hands like they might betray her again.
Somewhere deep inside her, something stirs. Not loud. Not angry. Just awake.
The promise lasts less than twelve hours.
Dustin Henderson barrels down the Wheelersâ basement stairs the next afternoon like heâs late for the end of the world.
His sneakers hit each step too fast, backpack thumping against his spine, breath already halfway gone by the time he reaches the bottom. He doesnât even pause to take in the familiar sightâthe folding table, the graph paper, the dice, the half-assembled campaign map.
âOkay, so,â he says, loud and urgent, âyou are not gonna believe this.â
Mike looks up from behind his Dungeon Master screen, unimpressed on instinct alone. âIf this is about your compass theory againââ
âItâs not,â Dustin says. âItâs about Donna.â
Lucas straightens immediately.
Will freezes.
Mike groans. âOf course it is.â
Dustin drops his bag, kneels, and starts digging through it like the answer might crawl out if he looks hard enough. âListen, listenâbefore you say anything, I promised I wouldnât over-fantasize about it, which I am not doing, but something happened last night and it wasââ
âDustin,â Lucas cuts in, cautious already, âwhat kind of something?â
Dustin finally looks up, eyes blazing.
âFire.â
The word lands heavy.
Willâs fingers curl into the edge of his chair.
Lucas blinks. âFire like⊠matches?â
âNo,â Dustin says. âFire like fire fire.â
Mike scoffs. âThat doesnât mean anything.â
âShe put it out with her hands,â Dustin says. âDidnât touch it. Didnât grab anything. It justâmoved. Like it listened.â
Silence.
The basement hums softlyâfurnace clicking, pipes tickingâeverything normal and wrong at the same time.
Will swallows. âLike⊠telekinesis?â
Dustin points at him like he just solved a riddle. âYes! Exactly! Except hotter.â
Lucas shifts in his seat, arms crossing. âOkay, or she panicked and knocked something over and youâre exaggerating.â
âI am not exaggerating,â Dustin says. âI saw it. The blanket was on fire and then it wasnât. It bent. Toward her hands.â
Mike leans back, frowning. âEven if thatâs trueâwhich Iâm not saying it isâhow does that help us?â
Dustin stares at him.
âHow does that help us?â he repeats, incredulous. âMike. My Sister. Donna Henderson has fire powers!â
âSo?â Mike snaps. âFire doesnât find people. Fire doesnât open portals. Fire doesnât bring El back.â
The name hangs there.
Willâs chest tightens.
Dustinâs mouth falls open. âDo you even hear yourself right now?â
Mikeâs jaw clenches. âIâm serious.â
âSo am I,â Dustin fires back. âWe spent all last fall running from monsters and government guys and Demogorgons, and now someone we know can literally control fire and youâre like, âmehâ?â
Lucas shakes his head. âDustin, slow down. You promised her you wouldnât do this?â
âIâm not doing this,â Dustin insists. âIâm justâinforming.â
âInforming us of what?â Mike asks. âThat Donnaâs life is even more messed up now?â
That hits harder than any shout.
Dustin hesitates.
Will speaks quietly. âDid she⊠want you to tell us?â
The question cuts clean.
Dustin looks away.
ââŠShe said not to,â he admits.
Lucas exhales sharply. âThen why are we talking about it?â
âBecause,â Dustin says, voice tight, âthis doesnât happen to normal people. And nothing like this happens without a reason.â
Willâs eyes flicker, something dark and curious passing through them. âWhat if itâs connected?â
Mike scoffs again, but thereâs a crack in it now. âConnected to what?â
Will doesnât answer right away.
To the woods.
To November.
To the feeling that never really left.
Lucas rubs his face. âI donât like this.â
âI love this,â Dustin says. âI meanânot love, butâyou know what I mean. This is big.â
Mike shakes his head. âItâs dangerous.â
âSo is everything,â Dustin shoots back. âAnd weâre already in it.â
The dice sit untouched on the table.
The campaign forgotten.
Somewhere across town, Donna Henderson is trying very hard to pretend nothing changed.
And in the basement, four boys realizeâslowly, uneasilyâthat it already has.
The Wheeler house looks the same.
Thatâs the problem.
Same porch light casting its dull yellow halo onto the snow-mottled lawn. Same hedges trimmed into polite shapes. Same windows glowing warm and domestic, like nothing inside them has ever broken past repair.
Joanna pauses at the bottom of the driveway, hands shoved deep into her coat pockets, breath fogging faintly in the cold.
She tells herself sheâs here for Mike.
Thatâs what she said in her head when she left the house. When she cut across the street instead of turning toward Donnaâs. When she didnât knock on Lucasâs door or head for the park or do any of the thousand other things she couldâve done to avoid this.
Mike Wheeler.
Because heâs been quiet. Because heâs been hollowed out in a way that feels too familiar. Because she knows exactly whyâand exactly nothing sheâs allowed to say.
The secret sits in her chest like a live wire.
El is alive.
The words press against her ribs every time she thinks his name.
Joanna exhales slowly, steeling herself, and walks up the driveway.
The front door is unlocked, as it almost always is.
She steps inside.
Warmth hits her first. The smell of dinner lingering faintlyâsomething tomato-based, something normal. The sound of the TV murmuring somewhere upstairs. Shoes kicked haphazardly near the door.
And thenâNoise.
Not from upstairs.
From below.
The basement.
Joanna freezes halfway into the foyer.
Itâs Dustinâs voice that reaches her firstâloud, fast, vibrating with a pitch she recognizes immediately.
Not excitement.
Not exactly.
Panic wrapped in enthusiasm.
ââIâm telling you, it wasnât just like, fire fire,â Dustin is saying, words tumbling over each other. âIt moved. Like it listened to her. Like it knew when to stop.â
Joannaâs stomach drops.
Her fingers curl involuntarily inside her sleeves.
She doesnât move. Doesnât breathe.
Another voiceâLucas, sharper, cautious.
âDustin, slow down. Youâre saying she justâwhat? Shot flames out of her hands?â
âNo! I meanâyes? But not like a flamethrower, okay? It was more likeâlike control. Like Pyro.â
Mikeâs voice cuts in, flat and brittle. âThis is stupid.â
Joanna closes her eyes.
Of course itâs happening now.
Of course the universe would do this to her.
âShe almost burned her room down,â Dustin insists. âAnd then she didnât. She stopped it. You shouldâve seen it.â
âThat doesnât make any sense,â Mike says. âHow is that supposed to help us find El?â
The name lands like a blow.
Joanna flinches.
Dustin scoffs. âDude, do you even hear yourself? Donna has fire powers.â
There it is.
The secret detonatingâjust not her secret.
Her chest tightens, breath catching painfully as she leans back against the wall, the cool paint grounding her.
This is wrong.
Not because Dustin is talking.
Not because Donna has power.
But because Mike is downstairs, hearing thisâhearing hope attach itself to someone else while the person heâs been grieving still exists, still breathes, still waits.
And Joanna canât say a word.
She presses her palm flat against the wall, steadying herself as another wave of voices risesâDustin rambling, Lucas pushing back, Will quiet but listening, Mike shutting down piece by piece.
This is not a room she can walk into.
If she goes downstairsâIf she looks at MikeâShe will tell him.
Or she will break.
Or worse: she will say nothing and watch him bleed anyway.
Her throat tightens.
I canât, she thinks. I canât do this.
The house creaks softly, settling around her.
And thenââJo?â
Joanna startles.
Nancy stands at the top of the stairs, one hand resting lightly on the banister, sweater sleeves pulled down over her wrists. Her hair is loose, falling around her face in a way that looks effortless but isnât. There are dark circles under her eyes she hasnât bothered to hide.
She looks surprised to see Joanna.
Not unwelcome.
Just⊠unprepared.
âOh,â Nancy says softly. âHey.â
Joanna swallows. âHey.â
For a second, neither of them moves.
The basement noise carries upward againâDustin mid-rant, something about Phoenix Force and mutations.
Nancyâs eyes flick briefly toward the basement door.
Then back to Joanna.
Something shifts in her expression. Not suspicion. Recognition.
âAre youââ Nancy starts, then stops. âDid you want to see Mike?â
Joannaâs mouth opens.
Nothing comes out.
Her chest aches.
Nancy watches her closely now, head tilting just slightly, like sheâs aligning puzzle pieces she didnât realize sheâd been holding.
The words come out rougher than she means them to.
Another beat of silence.
Nancy steps aside, making space at the top of the stairsâbut not gesturing down.
Up.
âMy parents arenât home,â she says instead. âIf you want⊠you can come up for a minute.â
Joanna hesitates.
Downstairs, Dustinâs voice spikes again. Mike snaps something back. The sound of dice clattering too hard against a table.
The secret in Joannaâs chest pulses.
She looks at Nancy.
Really looks at her.
Nancy Wheeler: still standing, still functioning, still pretending the ground under her feet hasnât cracked open. Nancy who lost Barb and never got her back. Nancy who doesnât know the truth but feels its weight anyway.
Joanna nods once.
âYeah,â she says quietly. âOkay.â
They climb the stairs together.
Each step feels heavier than the last.
Nancyâs room hasnât changed much since November.
Posters still line the walls, meticulously straightened. Her desk is neat in a way that feels intentional, almost defensive. The bed is made too tightly, corners sharp.
Everything screams control.
Nancy closes the door behind them, muffling the basement noise to a distant hum.
For a moment, they just stand thereâtwo girls in a room full of history neither of them knows how to name anymore.
Joanna exhales slowly.
âIâm sorry,â she says, suddenly. The words fall out before she can stop them.
Nancy blinks. âForâŠ?â
Joanna shakes her head, running a hand through her hair. âI donât know. Everything. Showing up unannounced. Disappearing. Being weird.â
Nancy gives a small, tired smile. âYouâre allowed to be weird.â
Joanna huffs softly. âIâve been abusing that privilege.â
Nancy gestures toward the bed. âSit.â
Joanna does, perching on the edge like sheâs unsure how much space sheâs allowed to take.
Nancy sits across from her, folding her legs beneath her, hands clasped loosely in her lap.
The silence stretches.
Not hostile.
Just heavy.
Downstairs, Dustin laughs too loudly at something that isnât funny.
Joanna winces.
âI was going to check on Mike,â she admits. âBut Iââ She stops, jaw tightening. âI donât think Iâm what he needs right now.â
Nancy studies her face. âWhy?â
Joanna looks down at her hands. âBecause I donât know how to lie to him anymore.â
Nancyâs breath catches almost imperceptibly.
She doesnât press.
Instead, she says quietly, âYou donât hate me, do you?â
The question lands sideways.
Joanna looks up sharply. âWhat? No.â
Nancyâs laugh is brittle. âOkay. Thatâs good. Because sometimes it feels like you do.â
Joannaâs chest tightens.
This is worse.
This is so much worse than yelling.
âNo,â she says again, firmer this time. âI donât hate you.â
Nancy nods, absorbing that, eyes fixed on the comforter between them.
âGood,â she murmurs. âBecause I donât think I could handle that right now.â
Joanna leans forward slightly, elbows on her knees.
âNancy,â she says, voice low. âI came here because IâŠI need to get something off my chest.â
Nancy looks up.
Something in her expression softens.
âThen youâre in the right place,â she says.
Downstairs, the boysâ voices rise againâDustin animated, Lucas cautious, Mike silent.
Two floors up, the house holds another kind of reckoning.
And Joanna Byers sits on Nancy Wheelerâs bed, carrying a truth that could shatter everythingâchoosing, for now, to lay down something else instead.
Her anger.
Her fear.
Her apology.
Nancy doesnât realize sheâs shaking until Joanna notices.
Itâs subtleâjust a tremor in her fingers as she twists them together in her lap, nails pressing crescent moons into her own skin. Her posture is perfect, spine straight, shoulders squared, like if she holds herself together tightly enough nothing will leak out.
Joanna recognizes the pose immediately.
Itâs the same one sheâs been wearing for months.
âIâm justâŠâ Joanna starts, then stops. The words knot in her throat, heavy and uncooperative. She exhales, scrubbing a hand over her face. âIâm going through a lot right now.â
Nancy lets out a quiet breath. Not relief. Permission.
âI know,â she says.
Joanna shakes her head. âNo, I meanââ She laughs weakly. âI guess I thought I was handling it. Or that I should be able to. These feelingsââ She gestures vaguely between them, then pulls her hand back like it burned. ââthey were something I could control.â
Nancyâs eyes flicker. She doesnât look away.
âBut I canât,â Joanna continues, voice tightening. âI canât control Barb dying. Or Donna healing in ways that donât make sense. Or El disappearing.â The name catches, sharp and dangerous. She swallows. âAnd I think instead of dealing with that, I⊠put it on you.â
Nancyâs lips part slightly.
Joanna presses on, the dam already cracked. âI guess part of me hoped you were going through the same thing. Because then Iâd know what to do. You always know what to do.â
Silence.
It stretches long enough that Joannaâs chest starts to ache.
Then Nancy laughs.
Itâs small. Hollow. Wrong.
âThatâs where youâre wrong, Jo,â she says quietly. âThatâs where Iâm wrong.â
Joannaâs breath stills.
âI donât know what Iâm doing,â Nancy continues. Her voice is steadyâtoo steadyâbut her hands have started shaking in earnest now. âI donât even know where to begin. I wake up every day and pretend Iâm fine because if I stop pretending, I donât think Iâll be able to start again.â
Her breath stutters.
âIâm clinging to my relationship with Steve because itâs the only sense of normalcy I can control anymore,â Nancy says, words tumbling faster now. âBecause everything elseâeverything importantâfell apart and I didnât stop it.â
Joanna leans forward instinctively.
âNancyââ
âWhat the hell are our lives right now?â Nancy cuts in, eyes bright and glassy. âWill almost died. Donna almost died. Youâre angry at me. Barbâsââ
Her voice breaks.
She stops breathing.
Itâs sudden. Violent. One second sheâs speaking, the next sheâs gasping like the air has vanished from the room. Her hands fly to her chest, fingers clawing uselessly at fabric as panic floods in, fast and merciless.
Joanna is on her feet instantly.
âHey,â she says softly, moving closer. âHey, heyâlook at me.â
Nancy shakes her head, eyes squeezed shut, breath coming in sharp, shallow bursts.
âI canâtâI canâtââ she tries to say, but the words dissolve.
Joanna kneels in front of her, grounding herself before she touches herâslow, deliberate, careful.
âOkay,â Joanna murmurs. âOkay. Youâre here. Youâre safe. Just breathe with me.â
She takes Nancyâs hands gently, anchoring them.
âIn through your nose,â Joanna says, demonstrating. âSlow. Like this.â
Nancyâs chest heaves.
âOut through your mouth,â Joanna continues, steady as stone. âYou donât have to fix anything. Just breathe.â
It takes a moment.
Then another.
Nancyâs breaths start to lengthen, uneven but no longer frantic. Her shoulders slump as the panic loosens its grip, exhaustion rushing in to replace it.
She sags forward.
Joanna catches her without hesitation.
Nancyâs forehead presses into Joannaâs shoulder, a quiet, broken sound slipping from her throat as she finally lets herself cry.
Joanna holds her.
Firm. Certain. No hesitation.
âIâm so sorry,â Joanna says, voice low and raw against Nancyâs hair. âIâm so fucking sorry I didnât realize. Iâm sorry I sprung this on you and put my anger on you. I didnât mean to make you feel like you were failing.â
Nancyâs fingers clutch at the back of Joannaâs jacket.
âItâs justââ Joanna swallows. âThis is a part of who I am. And Iâm scared. And I guess part of me thought if you were going through it with me, I wouldnât be as scared.â
Nancy sniffles, pulling back just enough to look at her.
Her eyes are red. Honest.
âI am going through it with you,â she says softly.
Joanna nods, accepting that.
âIâm just not in it with you.â
The words donât hurt the way Joanna thought they would.
They land clean. True.
Joanna lets out a shaky laugh, brushing a thumb under Nancyâs eye. âThatâs enough for me.â
Nancy exhales, tension easing from her shoulders for the first time all night.
They sit there like that for a momentâclose, steadying, breathing the same air.
Downstairs, someone laughs. Dice clatter. Life goes on.
Nancy leans back against the bed, wiping her face with the heel of her hand. âGreat,â she says, voice rough but wry. âNow what the hell are we gonna do about Donna?â
Joanna smiles faintly.
For the first time in days, it isnât forced.
âYeah,â she says. âThatâs⊠thatâs the question, isnât it?â
The house creaks around them, secrets stacked on secrets, truths waiting their turn.
The Byersâ kitchen smells like dinner trying to pass for normal.
Onions soften in a pan. Something simmers too long on the back burner. Joyce stands at the stove, wooden spoon tapping absently against the rim of the pot in a steady, unconscious rhythm. The radio hums low on the counterâsome harmless song that doesnât ask anything of anyone.
Will sits at the table, homework spread in uneven stacks, eraser shavings dusting the page like snow. He pauses every few seconds, pencil hovering, listening more than heâs writing.
Jonathan leans against the counter near the sink, arms crossed, weight settled into one hip. He looks like heâs not paying attention. He is.
The front door opens.
Joanna steps inside.
She moves slower than usual, like gravityâs still negotiating with her. Her shoulders sit a little too loose, her gaze unfocused at the edgesânot drunk, not high anymore. Just coming down. Like her body is lagging behind her thoughts, a half-second out of sync.
Joyce glances over her shoulder. âHey, honey. Youâre home late.â
Joanna shrugs out of her jacket, tries to hang it on the hook by the door. Misses. The fabric slips. She catches it and drapes it over the back of a chair instead.
âYeah,â she says. Her voice lands steady enough. âLost track of time.â
Jonathanâs eyes flick to her immediately.
Not accusing. Not angry.
Alert.
Joyce doesnât turn around. âYou hungry? I made enough for an army. Again.â
Joanna nods, lowering herself into her usual chair like sheâs careful not to make noise. âYeah. Smells good.â
She rests her elbows on the worn wood of the table, folds her hands together like sheâs anchoring herself to something solid. Will looks up at her then, really looks.
âYou okay?â he asks.
âYeah,â Joanna says too fast.
She catches it, smooths it. âJust tired.â
Joyce finally turns, spoon still in her hand, eyebrows knitting together as she studies her daughterâs face. The shadows under her eyes. The way sheâs holding herself.
âTired from what?â Joyce asks gently.
Joanna opens her mouthâCrunch.
Gravel shifts outside.
The sound cuts clean through the room, carried easily through thin walls and open air. Tires rolling slow. A car pulling in with purpose. A heavy door opening, then closing.
Familiar weight.
Hopper.
Joannaâs jaw tightens, just barely. She doesnât look toward the window. Doesnât flinch.
âI was with Donna,â she says instead, easy, practiced. âWe hung out for a bit.â
The lie settles into the space between them.
Joyce hums softly, accepting it without question. âOh, good. Iâm glad sheâs not alone so much.â
Will nods, satisfied, and returns to his paper.
Jonathan doesnât move.
He knows the rhythm of Joannaâs voice. Knows when sheâs answering and when sheâs redirecting. Knows when somethingâs being tucked away carefully, set aside for later.
He says nothing.
The front door rattles faintly as Hopperâs presence passes by the house, his shadow sliding briefly across the window.
Joanna keeps her eyes on the table.
Joyce turns back to the stove. âDinnerâll be ready in five.â
âOkay,â Joanna says.
Jonathan watches her for another second longerâthen looks away, choosing silence. Choosing time.
Outside, the engine cuts.
Inside, the house exhales.
And Joanna Byers sits at the table, suspended between the lie she told, the truth she didnât, and the man in the driveway who knows exactly where sheâs been.Â
The Beemer hums beneath them as Steve pulls away from the curb, headlights slicing a clean line through the dark. The engineâs purr is steady, reassuringâtoo steady for how unsettled everything feels. The radio murmurs something bright and forgettable, a song that belongs to a world where things make sense. Neither of them reaches to turn it off.
Nancy sits rigid in the passenger seat, hands folded tightly in her lap, fingers laced like sheâs afraid of what they might do if she lets them move. The dashboard light washes her face in soft blue, hollowing her cheeks, sharpening the shadows under her eyes. She looks exhausted in a way sleep wonât touch.
Steve glances at her once.
Then again.
âSo,â he says finally, clearing his throat. âAbout Donna.â
Nancyâs jaw tightens, the muscle jumping beneath her skin.
âWhat about her?â
Steveâs hands tighten around the steering wheel. Not enough to hurtâbut enough to ground him. âI justâI keep thinking maybe we should⊠I donât know. Do something. Check in more. Make sure sheâs okay.â
âSheâs fine,â Nancy says, too fast.
The word lands brittle.
Steve frowns. âShe almost died, Nance.â
âI know that,â she snaps, heat flaring before she reins it in. Her voice flattens, defensive, controlled. âI just donât think she wants our help.â
He glances at her again, really looking now. âWhy wouldnât she?â
Nancy exhales, the sound thin and tired, like itâs been stuck behind her ribs for weeks. âBecause everything I do lately feels wrong. Every time I open my mouth, I make it worse. And I think she knows that.â
Steve shakes his head, frustration creeping into his voice. âThatâs not fair.â
âIt feels fair,â Nancy says quietly.
They drive in silence after that. The road stretches out ahead of them, streetlights flashing by in uneven intervals. Snowbanks blur past the windowsâgray, half-melted, ugly. Everything looks used up.
âYouâre still going to those dinners,â Steve says eventually. Not accusing. Just stating it.
Nancy stiffens, shoulders squaring. âYes.â
âEvery week.â
âYes.â
He exhales through his nose, the breath rough. âNance⊠I donât get that. I really donât. You know they canât fix what happened to Barb. But Donnaâs still here. We can still help her.â
Thatâs when Nancy turns to him.
Her eyes are sharp now, bright with something close to angerâor maybe fear. âYou donât care about Donna.â
Steve flinches. âWhat?â
âYou care because she almost died at your house,â Nancy says. âBecause it happened on your watch. Thatâs guilt, Steve. Not concern.â
âThatâs notââ
âAnd if you really cared,â she continues, voice rising despite herself, words tumbling faster now, âyou wouldnât have taken me upstairs that night. You wouldnât have left her alone. Thatâs why she and I fought. You know that.â
Steveâs grip tightens hard around the wheel.
âDonât put that on me,â he says, sharper than he means to be. âYou know we wouldnât have done anything if you werenât ready.â
Nancyâs breath catches, the sound small and involuntary.
âWell,â she says, her voice cracking just enough to give her away, âI wasnât.â
The words hang between them, heavy and irreversible.
Steve slows the car, pulling up to the curb in front of her house. The tires crunch softly against the snow. The engine idles, waiting.
Nancy doesnât hesitate. She reaches for the door handle immediately.
âNancyââ Steve starts.
She cuts him off, already opening the door. âI canât do this right now.â
Cold air rushes in as she steps out, slamming the door harder than necessary. Snow crunches beneath her boots as she stalks toward the house, shoulders tight, head down. She doesnât look back.
Steve stays where he is, hands still on the wheel, engine humming beneath him.
He watches her disappear inside.
He doesnât turn the car off right away.
Because he doesnât know how to reach her anymore.
And she doesnât know how to stay.
Theyâre still moving forward.
Just not together.
The knock comes just as Joyce is clearing plates.Â
Itâs not urgent. Not loud. Just authoritative enough to cut through the clatter of dishes and low conversation. âIâve got it,â Joyce says, already reaching for the door.
Joannaâs shoulders tense before she can stop them. She knows that knock. Joyce opens the door to find Hopper standing on the porch, hat in hand, posture neutral but unmistakably official. Sheriff mode. Polite. Contained.
âEvening, Joyce,â he says. âSorry to interrupt dinner.â
âYeah,â Hopper replies easily. âI just need to grab a quick statement from Joanna. School incident today. Wonât take long.âÂ
The words hit Joanna like a flashbang. Statement. School. Incident.
Jonathanâs eyes snap to her. Joanna doesnât look at him.Â
Joyce glances back over her shoulder. âJo?â
Joanna is already pushing back her chair. âYeah,â she says, too quickly. âThatâs fine.â
She stands, grabbing her jacket off the chair back, shrugging it on with a little more force than necessary. She doesnât argue. Doesnât ask questions. Move first, process later.
Jonathan watches her closely as she passes. Their eyes meet for half a secondâlong enough for him to register the tension, the calculation already firing behind her stare.
Joyce doesnât notice.
âDonât be long,â she calls as Joanna steps outside.
Hopper turns immediately, walking toward the yard instead of the porch steps. Joanna follows without being asked, boots crunching against the gravel as they move past the edge of the house lights.
They stop where the yard gives way to trees.Â
Where voices donât carry.
Hopper doesnât waste time.
âYou rearranged Courtney Wilcoxâs understanding of personal space today,â he says.
Joanna lets out a sharp, humorless laugh. âWow. Thatâs one way to put it.â
âYouâre suspended for a week.â
She crosses her arms. âAlready aware.â
âYou scared half the hallway.â
âGood.â
Hopper studies her for a long beat. âYou donât scare easy,â he says. âYou donât act without reason.â
Joanna lifts her chin. âYou bring me out here to lecture me, orââ
âI know you were at my cabin today.â
There it is.
The air shifts.
âAnd I know what you saw.â
Joannaâs jaw tightens. Not in fear. In irritation.
âSo?â she says.
âSo I could arrest you. Trespassing private property.â
Joanna stops a few feet away. Doesnât pretend she doesnât know what heâs talking about. âYou didnât put up any signs.â
âNo,â Hopper agrees. âI didnât. You taught El what a skunk is?â
Joanna shrugs, "She should learn more about the real world."
Joanna studies him in silence. Up close, he looks more tired than intimidatingâbut the weight of him is still there. Gun at his hip. Badge on his chest. Authority stitched into every line of his posture.
âOh please, don't play this off as you trying to help her, you were high,â he says.
âWas, and you know I always only wanted to help her!â Joanna corrects.
His jaw tightens. âYou couldâve gotten hurt.â
âI didnât.â
âThatâs not the point.â
Joanna exhales through her nose. âThen what is?â
Hopper steps closerânot crowding her, not threatening. Just enough to make the boundary clear.
âYou donât go near that place again,â he says.
Joanna meets his gaze. Doesnât blink. âYou donât get to decide that.â
Something sharp flickers behind his eyes.
âYou wanna push this?â he asks.
She tilts her head. âYou wanna try and stop me?â
The space between them tightens.
âYou tell anyone,â Hopper says quietly, âand this whole thing detonates. You know that.â
Joanna nods once. âI do.â
âAnd if I shut you out completely,â he continues, âif I bar you from that cabinâyou donât just walk away.â
âNo,â Joanna agrees softly. âI donât.â
They stand there, the truth of it hanging between them like exposed wire.
âYou let me leave,â Joanna says. âYou didnât call the cops. You didnât call my mom. And you didnât drag me back inside in handcuffs.â
âBecause you didnât say anything,â Hopper replies.
âYet,â she says.
A beat.
Then another.
Finally, Hopper exhales. It sounds like surrenderâbut it isnât.
âThis isnât about you,â he says. âItâs about her.â
Joannaâs expression shifts at that. Not defensive. Focused.
âI know.â
âShe needs normal,â Hopper says. âShe needs something that doesnât feel like hiding.â
âShe needs people,â Joanna counters.
âShe needs you,â he says.
That lands harder than anything else.
âTwo times a week,â Hopper continues. âYou come by. Just you.â
Joanna blinks. âThatâs it?â
âNo Party,â he adds immediately. âNo kids. No Mike. No Dustin. No Lucas. No Will.â
She stiffens. âAnd Donna?â
Hopper shakes his head once. âNo Donna.â
Joanna swallows, jaw tighteningâbut she doesnât argue.
âAnd you donât tell anyone where she is,â Hopper finishes. âOr who she is. Or why.â
Joanna considers him carefully now. Not reactingâcalculating.
âAnd if I break the rules?â she asks.
âThen you donât come back,â Hopper says. âEver.â
The woods are quiet around them. Watching.
Finally, Joanna nods. âTwice a week,â she says. âJust me.â
Hopper studies her like heâs finally seeing the full shape of her.
âYouâre not reckless,â he says slowly.
She huffs. âCongratulations.â
âYouâre strategic,â he continues.
The word settles heavy between them.
Hopper turns back toward the house. âDonât make me regret this.â
Joannaâs voice stops him. âYou wonât.â
He pauses. Just long enough to admit something he doesnât want to. Thatâs what scares him. Then he walks away, boots crunching against gravel, the yard swallowing him whole.
Joanna stays where she is for a moment longer, breath fogging in the cold.
Two visits a week.
Not permission.
A truce.
Donna dreams of her room the way it used to be.
Not the way it looks nowâhalf rearranged to make space for crutches, the faint chemical bite of antiseptic clinging stubbornly to the airâbut the way it was before November carved everything hollow.
Posters straightened. Corners squared. Music playing low from the stereo, something familiar and unimportant. The window cracked just enough to let in cold night air and the distant, comforting hum of Hawkins settling down.
Barb is there.
She sits cross-legged on the carpet, back against Donnaâs bed, a milk crate of records spread open in front of her. She flips through them with care, methodical as always, narrating her decisions like the room itself is listening.
âThis one scratches,â Barb says, holding the vinyl up to the light. âAnd this oneâoh my god, Donna, this one skips so bad itâs basically unlistenable.â
Donna laughs.
The sound catches her off guard. It feels rusty in her chest, like a muscle she hasnât stretched in weeks. But itâs real. Warm.
âYouâre dramatic,â Donna says, leaning back against her dresser, arms crossed. Her leg doesnât ache here. Nothing does.
Barb looks up and smiles.
Itâs the soft smile. The familiar one. The kind that means safety without ever having to say it.
âSomeone has to be,â Barb replies. âYouâre terrible at it.â
They sit like that for a moment, wrapped in quiet. Normal. Easy.
Then the room⊠shifts. Not all at once. Not violently.
Just enough to make Donnaâs stomach tighten.
The walls seem to stretch upward, the ceiling pulling farther away. The air thickens, heavy and damp, like breathing through wet cloth. The music warpsâslowing, draggingâuntil it melts into a low, distorted hum and then disappears entirely.
Donna frowns. âBarb?â
Barb doesnât answer.
Donna turns.
Itâs still her room.
But it isnât.
The colors are wrongâwashed out, sickly, as if something has drained them. The posters sag against the walls, ink bleeding downward like itâs melting. Dark vines snake through cracks in the ceiling, pulsing faintly, alive in a way they should not be.
Barb is standing now.
Her back is to Donna.
âBarb?â Donna says again, quieter this time.
Slowly, Barb turns.
She isnât whole.
Her glasses are gone. One arm is missing entirely, torn away at the shoulder. Blood runs in dark, sticky trails down her sweater, soaking into the carpet beneath her bare feet. Her skin is too pale. Her eyes too open. Too still.
Donnaâs breath leaves her in a sharp, broken gasp.
âNo,â she whispers. âNoâno, no, no.â
She squeezes her eyes shut, like she can refuse this. Like not looking will undo it.
âI canât,â Donna says, voice cracking. âI canâtââ
A hand settles on her shoulder.
Cold.
Firm.
Undeniably real.
âOpen your eyes.â
Barbâs voice is different now. Stripped of warmth. Of softness.
Donna shakes her head. âPlease donâtââ
âDonna.â
The grip tightens, fingers pressing into muscle and bone.
âOpen your eyes.â
Her heart is pounding so hard it hurts. The air feels hot now. Wrong. Like something is building behind her ribs.
âDONNA,â Barb snaps, her voice splitting, echoing, layered with something deeper, heavier. âOPEN YOUR EYES.â
Donna screamsââand bolts upright in bed.
Heat slams into her.
The smell hits firstâthick, choking smoke that burns her throat. Her blanket is on fire.
Actual fire.
Flames crawl across the fabric, bright and hungry, licking toward her chest. The fire alarm shrieks overhead, sharp and relentless, shredding her thoughts.
âOh my godâoh my godââ Donna flings the blanket away and scrambles backward, panic detonating through her veins. Her mind blanks except for one word.
Fire.
She throws her hands up instinctively, shielding her faceââand the flames move.
They donât spread.
They donât jump.
They recoil.
The fire bends inward, folding back on itself, pulling away from her palms like itâs being pushed by an invisible force. The flames gutter, then collapse entirely, snuffing out in a rush of heat and smoke that leaves the room scorchedâbut standing.
Silence crashes down.
The alarm cuts out.
Donna stares at her hands.
Theyâre shaking. Smudged with soot. Ordinary.
Her brain refuses to connect what just happened. All she knows is that the fire is goneâand sheâs still breathing.
A sound behind her.
Donna looks up.
Dustin Henderson stands frozen in the doorway, a fire extinguisher clutched to his chest like a shield. His mouth hangs open. His eyes are wide, flicking from the blackened blanket to the scorched wallsâand finally to Donna.
âDude,â he breathes, voice barely there. âThat was⊠insane.â
Donna swallows. Her fingers curl slowly into fists. She doesnât answer.
Because somewhere deep in her chestâbeneath the fear, beneath the confusionâsomething is still burning. And it doesnât feel angry. It feels awake.
The room was cloaked in stillness, broken only by the sterile beep of the heart monitor and the faint whoosh of a ventilator cycling air into Donnaâs lungs.
She awoke to a muted world of pain.
Her vision blurred with each blink, swimming through shadows and clinical white light. Every breath was foreign â dragged through a plastic tube lodged in her throat, each inhale a violation. Panic stirred beneath the fog of anesthesia and exhaustion, the taste of plastic and blood thick on her tongue. She couldnât speak. Couldnât scream. Couldnât move.
She tried anyway â and agony answered.
Her left leg burned, pulsing with white-hot pain beneath the cast. Her right wrist throbbed in its brace. Her skin stretched taut across her torso, where fresh stitches traced the jagged claw wounds the Demogorgon had carved into her flesh. Her shoulder down to her forearm was a mess of gauze and tape, hiding the scar that still sizzled beneath it, like her body remembered being torn open.
The heart monitor spiked.
She began to thrash â weakly, uselessly â a dry scream caught beneath the tube. Terror surged, primal and blinding. Where was she? Was it over? Or had the Upside Down followed her back?
âWhoaâwhoa!â Dustin shot upright in the chair beside her bed, startled awake by the sudden flurry of movement. âDonna?! Donna!â
His voice cracked with desperate joy at firstâeyes lighting up as he stumbled closer, knocking the chair aside. Then his excitement shattered into confusion as he saw her face: her wide, glassy stare, her body rigid with panic, the restrained twitch of her fingers against the IV lines.
âShitâokay, okayââ he looked around, frantic. âIâm gonna get help, justâhang on, okay?!â
He bolted for the hallway, shouting, âNurse! Sheâs awake! I need someoneâplease!â
Inside the room, Donna was alone again.
The hiss of the ventilator matched the rising staccato of the heart monitor. Her hands clenched the sheets in twitching spasms, eyes darting as the ceiling swam above her. Every second stretched like rubber bands, taut and ready to snap. The white walls pressed in, sterile and unreal.
Not safe. Nowhere is safe.
She didnât know where she was, but she remembered where she had been. The moment the Demogorgonâs claws raked through her, the wet heat of her own blood spilling out, her body going numb as Hopperâs voice shouted through the haze.
She remembered dying.
Now she was breathing againâbut the machine was doing it for her. Why couldnât she breathe on her own?
She tried to scream again, but the sound was a gagged rattle.
Footsteps thundered in from the hallway. The door burst open. Nurses swept in, followed by Dustin, who hovered near the foot of the bed, his face pale and drawn, guilt tugging at the corners of his mouth.
âSheâs freaking out,â he said. âCanât youâcanât you take the thing out of her throat or something?!â
âSheâs intubated,â one of the nurses snapped gently, already checking her vitals. âHer lungs need help right now. Sheâs panickingârestrain her arms before she hurts herselfâ"
Hands pressed her down. A needle pinched. The world dulled again, edges fading under the weight of sedation, but Donnaâs eyes stayed locked on Dustinâs.
She was awakeâbut still trapped. Still bleeding inside, even if the wounds were closed.
Dustin stood there, helpless, as they worked. His sisterâhis heroâlooked at him like a frightened stranger.
And all he could do was whisper, âIâm right here, Donna. Iâm right here.â
The steady rhythm of the heart monitor had become erratic.
âGet him out,â the nurse said, voice sharp but restrained. âSheâs relapsing into distress.â
Dustin stood frozen at the foot of Donnaâs bed, eyes wide with panic. âNoâno, she just woke up. You canâtââ
âNow.â
The ventilator hissed harder, Donnaâs chest rising in shallow, rigid motions. Her eyesâwild only moments agoâwere rolling back as sedation reclaimed her, dragging her down beneath a wave of pain and panic she couldnât escape. Her fingers twitched once near the IV line, then went still.
A technician reached for the gurney brakes.
âWe need to move her to isolationâclose monitoring, full neurological evaluation,â the head nurse barked as the staff began swarming. âSheâs stable for now, but that doesn't mean safe.â
Dustin was shaking. âBut she just woke upâŠâ
âI said out, kid!â
A hand landed on his shoulderâfirm, but not unkind. Hopper.
âCome on, Henderson,â Hopper muttered. âLet them work.â
Dustin didnât argue. Couldnât. He let himself be led out of the room, his breath coming in shallow, broken bursts. Behind him, they wheeled Donna away, and the door to the trauma unit hissed shut with a soft click that sounded more like a coffin lid than a door.
Hopper didnât say anything as they walked.
Not until they hit the hallway junction, where the fluorescent light flickered with a low, broken hum.
Dustin sank onto the cold floor outside the observation wing. He wrapped his arms around his knees and stared straight ahead, eyes unfocused.
âShe looked right at me,â he said softly, like he was confessing a sin. âShe knew me.â
Hopper sat down beside him, back against the opposite wall. âYeah,â he said. âShe knew.â
âBut she was scared.â
Hopper didnât respond right away. He just nodded once, slowly, the kind of movement that acknowledged too many things at onceâtruth, pain, helplessness.
âShe came back,â Dustin whispered. âShe died, and she came back. Thatâs supposed to mean something, right? Likeâitâs supposed to be a miracle or whatever. But it just feels⊠wrong. Like she left something there.â
Hopper exhaled through his nose, the sound tight.
âYou donât walk out of Hell without dragging some of it with you,â he said quietly, his echoing steps leading them down the dimly lit hallway. âCâmon.â
The waiting room smelled like antiseptic and disappointment.
Theyâd commandeered a corner lounge in the Hawkins Lab facilityâplastic chairs, dim yellow overhead lighting, an old TV with no signal crackling in the background. The whole place looked like it hadnât been updated since the '60s, and felt even older than that. Sterile. Functional. Soulless.
Joanna sat in the furthest chair from the center of the room, arms folded tightly, her jaw clenched so hard it made her temples ache. She hadnât moved in over an hour. She hadnât spoken in longer.
Across from her, Mike sat with his back hunched, fingers digging into the edges of his chair. His eyes were bloodshot, knees bouncing. Lucas paced slowly near the vending machine, his fists opening and closing, like he wanted to punch something but couldnât find a good enough excuse. Dustin⊠Dustin was falling apart.
He stood near the observation glass, hands pressed to it like it might give him answers. His voice was low, shaky. âShe was awake. She was awake. I saw her eyes. I heard her.â
Joanna looked up at that.
Not with warmth. Not with comfort. But with a flicker of recognition. Something raw and silent in her stare that said: I know what it feels like to lose someone while theyâre still breathing.
Dustin turned, eyes glassy. His gaze swept the room, looking for someone, anyoneâherâto tell him it was going to be okay.
Joanna didnât move.
Her arms stayed crossed. Her shoulders didnât budge. She didnât speak.
It was Nancy who stepped in, quietly. She crossed the room with that particular Wheeler graceâcontrolled, unsure, full of soft-footed guiltâand placed a hand on Dustinâs back.
He leaned into her instinctively, sobbing without sound.
Joannaâs eyes dropped back to the floor.
Of course it was Nancy. Of course.
Steve leaned forward, elbows on his knees, watching Joanna carefully from across the room. Heâd seen the way she hadnât looked at Nancy since they got back. He saw the way she avoided everyoneâs hands. The way she hadnât checked on Will or even hugged her mother when they were reunited.
She was there.
But her eyes were stuck somewhere elseâlike sheâd left something behind and was terrified to go back for it.
Jonathan sat beside her, just close enough to feel like he was trying to reach her but not close enough to actually do it.
"You donât have to do this alone,â he said, voice low, barely audible.
Joanna didnât look at him.
âIâm not alone,â she said flatly.
But the words sounded like a lie. Even to her. Hopper watched from the far end of the hall. He leaned against the frame of the door, arms crossed, eyes flicking from face to faceâDustin trembling in Nancyâs arms, Mike chewing his lip raw, Lucas pacing, Jonathan defeated, Joanna stone-faced.
The kids were broken. The teens werenât much better.
And somewhere behind three layers of restricted doors and two guards with rifles, Donna lay sedated and still. Her vitals were steady. Her blood pressure was holding. The surgeons said she made it through the worst.
But Hopper had seen enough to know âthe worstâ wasnât always a thing you could cut out with a scalpel.
Sometimes the worst stayed.
He watched Joanna the longest. The way she sat perfectly still. The way her sword-calloused fingers dug into the sides of her own arms like she was trying to hold herself in one piece.
She reminded him of someone else.
Of himselfâafter Sarah. Sitting in rooms just like this, trying not to punch walls, trying not to cry, trying to keep it all locked so tight he didnât leak rage or heartbreak all over the floor.
He turned before anyone noticed him watching. The silence was oppressive. No one dared raise their voice. The air inside Hawkins Lab felt more like a morgue than a sanctuary. Every clock tick was a hammer against their nerves. Every footstep in the hallway made them flinch.
And thenâA whisper.
At first, no one noticed it. A faint, tremulous sound from the observation room just down the hall. Barely audible through the glass.
But Joyce did.
She jolted upright from her half-doze in the chair by the door. Her eyes locked onto the room beyond the glass like a siren had gone off inside her. Her breath hitched.
âWill?â she whispered.
Inside the room, her youngest sonâpale, trembling, sunken-eyedâhad shifted on the bed. His lips moved again, cracked and dry.
âJoâŠannaâŠâ
The name scraped from his throat like it didnât belong to the world anymore. Like he was unsure it still existed.
Joyce was already moving, hands fumbling with the door handle.
âHeâs awake!â she shouted, half-sobbing. âHeâs awakeâheâs talkingâJonathan!â
The whole room exploded into motion. Jonathan bolted upright, nearly knocking Steve over, and sprinted toward the room without a word. Nancy froze, Dustin backed away from the glass, Lucas stood wide-eyed and silent. Mike whispered Elevenâs name like he thought maybe sheâd come back just because someone else had.
But JoannaâJoanna didnât move right away.
Not until she heard her name again.
Not until that rasping, fragile voice repeated it like a prayer from someone whoâd seen Hell and was still walking barefoot through the ashes.
She stood slowly. She didnât rush.Â
When she stepped into the observation room, the door clicked shut behind her, sealing out the noise.
Will was propped against the pillows, eyes heavy-lidded, haunted.
Joyce had one hand wrapped tightly around his, her thumb stroking his knuckles like she was trying to anchor herself to his pulse. Jonathan hovered near the end of the bed, too afraid to come closer, like one wrong move would shatter his brother all over again.
Willâs gaze shifted to Joanna.
And something broke in his expressionânot fear, not reliefârecognition.
âI saw you,â he whispered, voice rough as gravel. âIn the dark. You were screaming-â
Joanna crossed to him, past her mother, past her twin, and lowered herself to the side of the bed.
She didnât flinch.
She didnât tell him it was over. She didnât say âyouâre safe now.â She didnât feed him the lies everyone else was probably dying to offer.
She just looked at him, her hand coming to rest gently over his trembling one.
âI know,â she said softly. âI was. You were too.â
Will swallowed hard, his chin quivering. âI thought I was gonna die there. I thoughtâDonnaâŠâ
Joannaâs voice cracked just slightly. âShe made it back.â
Willâs lower lip trembled, and a tear slipped down his cheek. âI didnât want to leave her,â he whispered. âShe was so cold.â
Joanna leaned forward, resting her forehead gently against his. âYou didnât leave her,â she said. âShe left you alive.â
That was the truth.
And Will criedânot loud, not wildâbut the quiet, broken kind of sobbing that echoed from deep inside the soul. Joyce pulled Jonathan in close, their family a tight knot of pain and relief.
Joanna stayed there with Will, eyes closed, letting him grieve. Letting him exist. Not as a victim. Not as a miracle. Not as a child who was supposed to be okay.
But as a survivor. Someone who would never be the same againâand deserved to not be okay.
And in that moment, even if no one else knew how to see it, Joanna did. She always had.
Awareness seeped into Donna like a slow, viscous tide, dragging her upward from black oblivion.
But the light at the surface wasnât warm.
It was sterile.
Buzzing.
White.
And with it came the memories.
They didn't return gently.
They slammed into her.
First came the image of Barbâher face twisted in terror, her screams shrill and pleading, cut off by the wet, bone-shattering crunch of the Demogorgonâs jaws. The sound lived in Donnaâs head now, replaying like a needle scratching a broken record. No matter how many times sheâd reached for Barb in that split second, she had always been too slow.
Always too slow.
Then came Will.
His voice trembling in the dark.
His fingers gripping hers like a lifeline.
The way he whispered, âDonât let go.â
She hadnât.
And still, she had lost himâif only for a moment.
And that moment had felt like forever.
A lifetime where sheâd been nothing but fear and failure in a hoodie.
ThenâHer own death.
That memory was the sharpest. Not the pain.
Pain, she'd expected.
It was the quiet she remembered.
The cold realization that sheâd bled too much. That her body was giving up.
Not with rage. Not with desperation.
But with silence.
It hadnât even scared her.
Thatâs what stayed with her nowâstrapped to a hospital bed, throat still raw from the tube, stomach bound tight with gauze and stitches, arms heavy, bones cracked and fused. Her leg pulsed with phantom agony, but it barely registered above the absence she felt.
She was back in the real world. But her mind hadnât followed.
Her eyes drifted to the ceilingâwhite tiles, a hairline crack in the corner. The kind of detail she could fall into and never crawl back out of.
She reached for the blanket draped over her torso. Her hand shook. Not with pain. With nothing. She gripped the fabric tightly, fingers curling into it like it might anchor her. Like it might tell her she still existed. Still mattered. Still was.
But the harder she held on, the more her grip felt like a lie.
The girl before she got stuck in the Upside Down wasnât here anymore.
That Donnaâsharp, fast, loud with fire and furyâwas just a memory floating somewhere inside her skull. What was left felt⊠grey. Faded.
Like the Upside Down had reached inside her and hollowed something out.
Her throat tightened. Not to cry. She didnât have the energy to cry.
Just to breathe.
But even that felt borrowed.
She turned her head slowly toward the monitor. The machine beeped with mechanical loyalty. Steady. Unconcerned. It had no idea who she was, or what she had lost.
She let out a shaky breath, eyes blank as her gaze returned to the ceiling.
Barb.
Will.
The blood.
The bone.
The void.
They were all still with her. And for the first time, Donna Henderson didnât know if she was still the hero. Or just another survivor waiting to shatter.
