WE'LL MEET AGAIN

Evan had been looking for somewhere quiet to disappear to. Funerals were overwhelming for him because he'd never been comfortable around death. His sister was gone and missing before he could fully understand the meaning, his mother run out and states away, and his father died while he was overseas. He'd never had any other family to attend, so his closest connection to funerals was long-standing community members that had passed away. It was a small gesture that everyone would make but one that left Evan with goosebumps and a restless night of sleep.

Truth be told he needed to breathe. He needed to remind himself that he was grounded, that he was AWAKE, and would find peace again.

' Sorry, uh — ' but his words were clearly unnecessary, Evan moving out of the way so the other would shut the door behind him. His name was shimmering in Evan's mind, somewhere just beneath the surface of memory... M-something, M...

' Joyce Byers was the heart of Hawkins. '

It wasn't much, but it felt like the truth. Joyce wasn't someone Evan ever spent much time with, nor were her kids, but he'd been old enough when he first moved to Hawkins to know how important Joyce was to the community. Always kind, but never hesitate to fight for what she believed in or what she needed. Evan knew that if he ever had a problem, she would have been someone he could have turned to. Stranger, or otherwise.

Murray didn't recognize the young man he'd all but abducted, but it didn't mater. A willing audience was a good one. He watched out of the corner of his eye as recognition flashed through the other's eyes. It wasn't totally unusual-- most people knew who Murray was, even if their ideas of him were based totally on untruths and old wives tales. But the man's suggestion was enough to stop Murray in his tracks.

"You knew her well?" Murray knew everyone Joyce did; At least, so he thought. Maybe the young man was a second cousin, or something-- certainly he hadn't visited in the last decade. "You don't live in town, do you?" he asked, for a moment forgetting about his eulogy and shifting into investigation mode.

Where: Hop's Cabin

Why: Sad & Old Farts

Jim hopper was a man of action, a man with a plan, a man who could proudly fix his own shit. On any better day an allegedly broken television wouldn't leave him scrambling for the landline, but the alcohol did a number on his ability to mess with the tv's back panel (or even check if it was turned on). He downed a beer with dinner, followed by his collection of bourbon, moving over to the porch afterwards to wash it all down with a few cigarettes. The sobriety required to fix technical issues was long gone by the time he was ready for his late-night surf of the channel guide. That's when he discovered the television wouldn't turn on. After several failed attempts at fixing the goddamn thing, Jim's solution resided in dialing the only number that he could remember off the top of his head. Murray Bauman. That old fucker would know how to fix this problem for sure, regardless of the yapping and theories that it might take for it to happen. In the meantime he grabbed a bag of chips from the kitchen to soak up alcohol swirling in his stomach and got comfortable on the couch, bag tucked under an arm as he munched away.

Jim basically forgot that he called Murray until there was a knock at the door. "Come in," he grumbled , probably too quietly, adding in a louder, "the door's fuckin' open!" He struggled to wedge himself up as Murray let himself in, reaching for the remote again with a pained sigh. His focus doubled down on the issue that brought his friend here, smacking the device against his palm as if it would do anything to fix the problem. "I'm not sure if it's the remote but I swear tv's were better back when shit was black and white."

Murray picked up the remote, immediately flipping it over to pop off the battery compartment. He may not have a TV of his own, but he knows a thing or two about the turn of the century... something Jim couldn't be bothered with. Murray wriggled the very corroded batteries out and threw them at Hopper, one by one, smacking him in the chest. "Jim, didn't your mommy ever teach you about corrosion?" he joked, waving the remote in front of his face. He made himself at home, going into the kitchen and rifling through junk drawer after junk drawer-- although, if they're all junk drawers, would that make them all just drawers?-- until he found a pack of batteries. "You got spraying vinegar? Or lemon juice?" he called into the den, before finding an almost-empty lemon juice squeezer. "Nevermind! Don't get your rickety ass up on account of me!"

After a thorough wipe-down, Murray inserted fresh batteries and presented the remote to his friend. "Try now," he sighed. When it worked, he shoved Jim's feet off the end of the couch and settled in, as if saying now I'm here, you have to entertain me. "Next time, just buy me dinner?" he teased.

Murray remembers feeling strangely relieved when Holly Wheeler had flown the nest. She hadn't been exposed to half the things her older siblings had, thus dramatically improving her prospects to have a normal life. A life like her mother's. Seeing her back in town for the funeral felt almost wrong, and watching her sit across from him, Murray had to resist the urge to shout 'run' at her. Nothing strange had happened for years, nothing strange would happen. Just average tragedies. It was ironic, truly, that Joyce had lived through so many spectacular things only to be killed by fucking cancer. Life was a bitch.