#hawkins

Early morning light shines through the bedroom blinds, casting beams of warmth across Josianne's bed.

And directly into her eyes.

The girl rolls over with a tired huff, smooshing her cheek into the pillow to block it out, pleading with whatever divine being exists to fork over a few extra moments of sleep. Peeling her eyes open, the clock on her nightstand reads only a little past 7:00. Josianne reaches up, wiping the crust sticking uncomfortably to her eyelids before letting them close again.

Her bed is warm and cosy; she pulls the covers up to her chin to shield herself from the morning chill, but all that does is expose her feet to the cold air. What's gonna come get me? she wonders sleepily. The Boogeyman?

The sound of padding feet alerts Josianne a moment too late before her bedroom door is ripped open like the S.W.A.T. has come to take her away. The hinges clatter roughly from the action and their years of use. They desperately need to be greased — the creaking has bothered her for months now.

"I'm up, I'm up!" Josianne shoots upright, her bangs sticking out in all sorts of unflattering directions. It looks like she'd gotten into a fight with a raccoon, and after the raccoon won, it gave her a serious makeover to look just like it.

Jonathan grumbles in exasperation as he ducks out of the doorway, "Jesus, do you sleep through everything?"

"What happened?" No response. "Hey, what happened? Jonathan?!" She throws the covers off, leaping out of bed. She nearly falls flat on her face trying to tug her slippers on, hopping around on one foot toward the door. "Jesus, fuck!"

Soles slap against the floor when she crosses the living room, following after her brother as he works around the kitchen. 

"What happened?!" Josianne demands once more.

Jonathan shushes her quickly. "I just got Mom to get some more sleep — can you stop shouting?"

"Can you just tell me what happened?" She takes care to lower her voice, but the words leave gritted all the same. She's getting tired of chasing down information. 

He exhales slowly, turning on the stove to start breakfast. "I heard Mom talking to Will, so I thought—"

"Will's home?!" 

Jonathan has to grab the back of his sister's shirt when she darts away to investigate. "Will you let me finish?" He lets go once he's sure she'll stay put, and he continues: "I heard Mom talking to Will, so I thought he had come home. But when I went in to see, she was sitting in the dark with every lamp in the house."

Out of all the ways Josianne expected him to end that sentence, that was nowhere near it. 

"Wait, let me get this straight," she says slowly, waving her hands around. "Mom was sitting in Will's room, at 7:00 AM, talking to the lights…?"

Jonathan's face scrunches up in worry. "Yeah. I think she thinks he's… in the lights, or something. Using them to talk to her."

"… She thinks he's in the lights." She carefully quotes back.

This is easily one of the oddest conversations Josianne has had this early in the morning, although it only comes second to the time Will started an entire debate over whether oatmeal should be categorised as a cereal or a soup. She spent thirty minutes debating with a nine-year-old about what made it what before Joyce told them to knock it off and eat.

Jonathan nods. "Yeah."

"Alright, just… making sure I heard you right."

• • • • • • • • • •

Josianne doesn't even make it to third period before Nancy approaches while she's trying to get her locker open. She's alone for once, which Josianne finds odd but mentions nothing about; Nance is usually joined by Barb or sometimes Steve, if he's feeling "brave enough" to share his presence. 

"Have you seen Barb anywhere today?" Nancy asks, fiddling with her bag strap.

Oh. Well, that explains it, then.

"Is that really your opening line?" Josianne mutters sarcastically. "Needs work."

She doesn't offer a polite glance, focusing her attention on opening the locker. 6-39-17… a sharp tug on the lock proves fruitless. Good God, why does it decide to jam now?!

Nancy sighs as she leans her head against the adjacent locker, trying to get her friend to look at her. "Are you… still upset about last night?"

"Yes, Nancy," Josianne finally manages to get the lock to unstick. "I am. What, are you gonna quiz me on all the reasons I shouldn't be?"

"I just wanted you to finally have some fun."

Josianne draws her lips tight as he digs through a clutter of textbooks and class materials; she cringes when her hand brushes against something fuzzy, before realizing it's just a pom-pom from an old art project. "And that just worked wonderfully, didn't it?"

"Fine, yes, you can be upset, but can you at least answer my question?"

She snorts. "I didn't ask your permission to be upset."

"Josianne."

"Nancy." The girl looks now, meeting sass with sass.

Nance deflates, hugging her books tighter against her chest. She always does this: shutting down when anyone expresses an emotion she can't particularly figure out how to handle.

"Have you seen Barb today or not?" She repeats quietly with a stubborn curl of her lip.

Shoving her history textbook into her bag, Josianne refuses to meet Nancy's gaze. The thick pages get stuck on the way in as a result of her insistent jamming, and she slows down, moving things around so her notebooks don't bend. The textbook slides in nicely, the hardcover corners poking her hips through the canvas. She shuts her locker with more force than necessary. "I haven't. Maybe she's as sick of your shit as I am."

Nancy scoffs, "You don't have to be an ass just because you've got your own stuff going on."

"And what stuff would that be?" Josianne gets up close, pushing her shoulder. It's not a threat, more of a warning, but it gets the point across: don't fuck with me. "If you play that card, Wheeler, I can guarantee you won't be winning."

Nancy's face goes through about three different shades in the span of two seconds. Anger first, then shame, with a flicker of worry in between. The chances of Josianne getting into a physical altercation are usually low, but when it comes to her family, that chance skyrockets to nearly 70%. She saw what she did to Lyle Winowki; no doubt he would've landed in the hospital if the fight didn't occur on school grounds with faculty watching.

"I'll just, um…" Nancy swallows, motioning vaguely over her shoulder. "I'll ask Steve later."

"Yeah. You do that." 

Nothing more is said as Nancy stumbles away with her tail between her legs to her next class, the warning bell echoing brashly through the halls. Josianne huffs, reaching up her sweater sleeve to pick at a scab on her forearm as she too heads off to third period. Her fingernails emerge with blood both dried and new caked underneath, but she pays no mind — she'll clean up later.

For Josianne, history class has always either thrilled her or bored her to death. It isn't super interesting to hear about a bunch of dead guys creating a country only for more dead guys to completely break it and put it back together with duct tape. That's her version of the story, at least. 

"Did you hear?" Amanda Kassidy, the girl who sits behind her in this class, whispers halfway through Mr. Moore's definitely non-personal rant on how he totally would've survived the Oregon Trail. 

Amanda's friend, Jamie, who — unfortunately for Josianne, who has to listen to their irritating conversations every day — sat in the seat beside her, looked up from her mid-lesson doodling. "About what?"

The redhead snorts behind a perfectly manicured hand. "That Wheeler chick totally banged Steve Harrington."

Painted wood presses against Josianne's palm as she grips her pencil as a way to avoid whirling around in her chair. She's not sure what she's more upset about: the idea that Nancy got lucky after she stormed out last night, or the fact that it's now the subject of today's gossip. Wonder who put that out into the halls of Hawkins High...

"Um, no way," Jamie denies, "Wheeler is such a priss. And, I mean, come on. Him? With her?"

Josianne can't help but turn her head, thankful now that the girl happens to fall within her easy line of sight. "It really is none of your business."

Both teens scoff at the interruption, as well as the clear scowl aimed in their direction. Amanda crosses her arms, gum snapping loudly between her teeth. "Suck a dick, Byers."

"Bet you wish you were."

The redhead smacks her hands down hard on her desk; miraculously, Mr. Moore doesn't take notice. Her tone is low but biting when she hisses, "The hell is that supposed to mean??"

"I think you're deflecting." Josianne has a shit-eating grin on her face — she gets a real kick out of pissing on the stupidly popular. "Living vicariously through gossip to avoid remembering that no one finds you remotely interesting enough to sleep with."

"You fucking bitch—"

"Ms. Kassidy!" The teacher finally decides to pay attention to what's happening in his own classroom. "Do you have something to share with the class?"

Amanda blinks at him like a deer in headlights for all of two seconds before a switch flips and she's smiling like a fucking saint. That evil, conniving shitstain. "No, Mr. Moore. Sorry to interrupt."

He stares for a moment longer, chalk in hand as it lazily drags down the board; he's lost his point. "… Focus on the lesson, please."

Amanda spends the remainder of class slamming her feet into the back of Josianne's chair.

Worth it.

• • • • • • • • • •

Jonathan is quiet when he meets his sister after the final dismissal bell. He's usually quiet, so it's not anything that raises a red flag. Plus, the family has been through hell and back in the last three days alone; anyone would be quiet if they were going through something like this.

… Except maybe Josianne, who can't bring herself to shut up.

"She's still acting like a total douche!" She's mid-rant about Nancy for at least the fourth time this month as they weave through the crowd of students, all eager to get the hell out of here. "I mean, you can date the guy all you want — I don't give a shit. Just stop acting like he's the only thing that matters!"

Jonathan raises his brows, looking like he'd rather be anywhere but here, and that he'd come close to choking his sister out if that's what it took to end this. "I don't know what you want me to say; we've already had this conversation."

"Can't you just listen and be supportive? God, you are such a boy, Jonathan."

The high school parking lot is busy with teens, driving or walking, and impatient parents honking at their kids and other parents. Josianne kicks a loose rock off the sidewalk, and it hits a passing car with a sharp boof. The driver doesn't notice, or at least doesn't stop, but she starts walking a little faster just in case. 

"Well — what's your problem now?" Jonathan asks.

She shoves a hand through her hair, messing up her bangs; not that they were that neat to begin with. "She walks up to me earlier today, right? Doesn't even say 'hello', just asks me where the hell Barb is. Like I would know — I don't have the time to keep tabs on everyone. And she didn't even bother to apologize for—" Josianne cuts herself off when she remembers: Jonathan doesn't know about last night. "You know what, it doesn't even matter. She's still acting like a total dick."

Before they can reach the car, Jonathan stops, stumbling and turning to walk back toward the building. "I, uh, forgot something in the… um… bathroom."

She squints at him. "The hell'd you forget in there?"

"Just — don't worry about it, alright?" He waves her off, walking faster. "I'll—"

"Byers!" A voice calls; Josianne turns, met with the sight of Steve Harrington and his goons leaning around the Byers' Ford Galaxie, eyes narrowed like lions watching their next meal. "You goin' somewhere, buddy?"

Jonathan freezes, gaze sticking to the ground as he debates whether it would be better to run and deal with the consequences later, or to just get it over with now. He ultimately chooses the latter, shuffling to return to his sister's side. 

"What's going on?" She questions, holding up a hand to prevent Jonathan from moving forward. She's not sure what's going on, but she knows whatever it is, it isn't going to end pretty.

"Nicole here," Steve nods to the redhead beside him; it's a girl Josianne doesn't know much about. "Was just telling us about your brother's 'work'."

"What, you mean his photography, or something?"

The four snicker rudely, talking over each other in whispers. Jonathan turns to walk away again, changing his mind, but Josianne grabs him by his jacket without having to look; he groans in internal doom, but doesn't try to pry himself out of her grip.

"Yeah, you know," Steve continues," We'd just love to take a look, as… connoisseurs of art?"

While the siblings' focus is trained on him, Tommy takes the chance to swipe Jonathan's school bag away, quickly tossing it to the head of their group, who starts digging through it.

"Ah," he hums, pulling out what looks like a small bundle of photographs. He flashes it around with a triumphant grin on his face. "Here we go."

But as Steve starts flipping through the photos, that proud smirk slips into a frown when he sees what they capture. Josianne stares at her brother, still in her hold, whose head is bowed like he's been caught with his hand in a cookie jar. Her pulse races as everyone looks through the pictures, each displaying the same reaction: disgust, shock, and the satisfaction of being right about something.

Josianne finally lets go, walking closer with her hand stretched out. "Let me see."

"Josie, no—" Jonathan pleads, but Steve is already slipping one of the photos into her waiting fingers, face down like it's a bad test grade.

"Think you'll like this one, Byers."

The photograph he had given her, black and white, depicts a scene that makes her heart drop into her ass. It's a shot of everyone at the party last night, standing out by Steve's pool. Judging by the view, the picture was taken from the bushes; Josianne has to swallow back the bile crawling up her throat. 

She's angry, in the picture — waving her arms around, the motion blurry on camera. It must've been taken when she was telling everyone off. In her side profile, you can see the way she bared her teeth, even from afar — she didn't even realize she was doing that.

Josianne's fingers grip the edge of the photograph as she makes Jonathan look at it, crinkling the film. "What the hell is this?!"

"I was looking for our brother—" he stutters.

Steve points at him with the rolled-up bundle in his hand. "No, this is called stalking."

The most shocking thing plucked from this situation is that, for once in an awfully long time, Josianne finds herself agreeing with him. Who takes pictures of people without their consent, from the bushes? At night?!

It's then that Nancy pops up, a worried smile on her face as she takes in the scene. That's when Carol tells her about the photos, about how Jonathan had spent the night spying on them while all were blissfully unaware. How he'd saved a shot of her in her underwear 'for later'.

Josianne worries now that they all thought she'd helped orchestrate the whole scandal; maybe as an act of revenge for being forced to go. She hadn't, of course, but she knows how people like them think — they'll blame anyone else to get the dirt off their own backs.

Maybe if she looks horrified enough, they won't lump her in with the final prosecution.

"See, you can tell he knows it was wrong, but," Steve walks up to Jonathan, tugging on the collar of his shirt, "That's the thing about perverts. It's hard-wired into 'em, you know? They just can't help themselves." His hardened gaze doesn't falter when he starts ripping up the cluster of photos, tossing the pieces carelessly into the air like confetti. "We'll just have to take away his toy."

In an instant, he has Jonathan's camera cradled in his hands, snatched from his bag despite Nancy's quiet protests on the side. It's the camera both siblings use almost daily — Josianne borrows it from her brother frequently to take photos around school for the yearbook. It cost nearly $200; they had to save up their montly allowance for almost a year to buy it. Joyce wanted to teach them how to save up for things themselves, rather than asking her to buy it for them. It was a valuable lesson.

Josianne and Jonathan start shouting over each other, trying to get the camera back. Tommy pushes them both with an impish grin; Josianne loses her footing, falling hard onto the asphalt. When she looks at her palms, stinging from bracing herself, they're red, scraped up, and starting to bleed a little in some spots. 

"She wasn't part of it, Tommy." Steve scolds, but doesn't make a move to help her up. 

Moments later, he's dropped the camera, letting it shatter on the ground, and Josianne has to yank her foot out of the way before it can fall on her ankle. Shards of glass spray across the road, one knicking her leg where the hem of her jeans rode up. For a few still seconds, no one moves. No one says a word. 

"… Come on, let's go," Steve finally mutters to his friends, bumping shoulders with Jonathan as he passes. "The game's about to start."

Josianne stays on the ground while everyone clears out, elbows resting on her knees as she stares at the destroyed camera. Her brother dives down as soon as eyes are off him, checking on it and praying there's a way to salvage it, though it isn't likely there will be. His whole life is spent behind that camera. He's been in love with photography since he was ten years old — found a love for the hobby after Lonnie left. The school counselor put the idea out there as a way to cope.

Nancy stays behind for a second, gathering up a few pieces of the photography before the breeze can blow them away. Why she wants to keep them is a mystery to the siblings, but they couldn't care less. Josianne stands, crumpling the picture she was given and tossing it into the grass as Steve shouts at his girlfriend to get going. Jonathan is still on the ground, picking up the shredded pieces.

"Just leave them."

He looks up for only a second at his sister's dull tone. "I can't just… leave them. I… don't want to litter."

"No," her voice is biting now as she sticks a finger in his face. "You just don't want anyone else to see this."

Silence. Jonathan's hands shake as they dart around, picking up all the scraps and tossing them into his bag before returning to the camera. Josianne bends over to get a better look at it: the entire front lens is full of spider web cracks wherever the glass had managed to stick in place — you can't even see through what remains. The hard plastic around it is warped from the impact.

It's destroyed. Unusable.

"… Who the hell do you think you are?" She finally asks when Jonathan rises from the ground. He blinks at her, unable to form a proper response. She continues, "Our family already gets the bad rep from what happened with Dad, from what's going on with Will — you know those cops think we had something to do with it, right?"

"You don't—"

"You know everyone thinks you're a creep, right?" Josianne doesn't let him talk. "You are a creep. Who the fuck just hangs out in the bushes and takes pictures of people?!"

Jonathan finally finds his voice, hoarse with betrayal. "Well, who goes to a party when their brother is missing?!"

"That's nowhere near being the same thing, and you know it."

"At least I was trying to look for him."

"No," she enters his space, poking his chest roughly. "You stopped 'trying to look for him' the second you stayed on the property line. Stop trying to give me your bullshit excuses, because I am tired of hearing them."

"Can we not do this here?" Jonathan glances around; thankfully, no one is staring or taking notice of this heated argument.

"Were you still 'looking for Will' when you took a picture of Nancy in her underwear?" Josianne waits — he says nothing. "When you took a picture of her and Steve kissing, through his bedroom window? How about when you—"

He finally breaks, "You don't get it, okay?!"

"Yes, please, enlighten me," she tries to keep her voice level, but it sounds like she's being strangled more than anything. "Because for once, you're right — I definitely do not get it."

Jonathan looks away, trying to conjure up any other line of defense, since his only option was shot down and tossed into the flames. He doesn't come up with anything that doesn't sound stupid or furtherly incriminating, though. Josianne checks her watch — she has to be at work in twenty minutes. I don't have time for this shit.

"I'm leaving," she announces, grabbing her bike from where it sits stowed in the backseat of the car. "But all I'll say is that you should be ashamed of yourself. And I won't tell her, and you should thank me for that, but Mom would be so disappointed in you. And Will would be horrified if he knew."

He ducks his head, "You don't think I know that?"

"… Are you pouting right now?" Josianne can feel the veins popping out of her neck. "You're seriously pouting right now—?!"

"I am not pouting!" Jonathan still doesn't look up.

"You're acting like a child. No — actually, you're acting like our father. That's all that man did — pout. You're really gonna act like that loser right now?"

That catches his attention. "You don't get to pull that card."

"Yeah, well," she throws a hand up. "I just did. What're you gonna do about it, take my picture? Oh, wait, you can't. You got that privilege taken away," she motions to the mess of shattered glass on the ground, words dripping with feigned guilt, "My mistake."

Jonathan's face pinches up into something ugly. "You're really gonna side with Steve and not me?"

"For once, yes. You know why? Because, unlike you, Steve doesn't take creepy pictures of people without them knowing."

"He broke our camera—"

"He also could've called the cops!" Josianne shouts, gesturing around wildly. "He could've had you arrested — do you want to get arrested, Jonathan?!"

"No, but —"

"Then just shut the fuck up!" For the first time in two days, he finally listens to her, mouth clamping to shove down whatever insult would've come next. "… I'm leaving now. If you could come up with a damn good apology in the next few hours that I'm at work, that would be great."

Jonathan grunts as she hops on her bike, some spots still smeared with dried black paint, watching as she pedals away, swerving around cars that honk at her and brake right before a possible collision. He almost calls out to "be careful", but turns to the car instead, broken camera in hand.

• • • • • • • • • •

Enzo's is always a touch warmer than it ought to be. It's that precise temperature that feels great after getting in from the cold, but makes you pull at your collar after a few minutes. Music, played skillfully by a small orchestra Josianne can never remember the names of, fills the room with a classical twinkle that keeps her somewhat entertained as she leans against the host stand — they played The Stranglers' "Golden Brown" an hour ago; one of her favorites. It sounds so pretty when it's only instruments.

While she doesn't mind her job — it's pretty easy: she just has to greet everyone as they walk in and lead them to their reserved tables — she hates almost every guest she sees. Most of them are these rich assholes; the ones who live out on Randolph or Loch Nora, who order steak or lobster or anything else equally as expensive. Josianne spends a lot of time looking at the menu — the carbonara alone is $10.50, and that's one of the least pricey options. 

You don't even want to know how much the Ribeye costs.

But the gig is good — she gets four shifts a week, 3:00 to 9:30 on weekdays, 3:00 to 11:00 on weekends. It's nothing to sneeze at. Plus, she's allowed to do her homework or work on crossword puzzles if she gets her sidework done and doesn't let it interfere with her customer service. The manager, Harry, is pretty understanding of his staff's personal lives.

Speaking of, his voice startles Josianne so severely when he appears by her side that she drops the staple remover she'd been fiddling with — it clatters onto the reservation book. "Is everything in?"

How long has she been zoning out? Had the phone rung? How many people have walked in and out? She straightens up the desk to make it look like she's been productive. "Yeah, yeah — last one came in a while ago."

He hums, gaze narrowing in calculation like he's thinking far too hard about something. Harry is this short guy, in his mid-forties at the youngest. He has this big walrus-looking moustache that he takes way too much care of, but his hairline is a total nightmare. Josianne likes to say he kinda looks like Tom Selleck, if he were balding.

No one else sees it.

A lot of the other employees don't really like Harry; you'll overhear them complain about how hard he is on them or how he keeps threatening to dock their pay for "absolutely no reason". In reality, he's only hard on them because they all suck at their jobs and take more smoke breaks than they do check on tables.

"I can… probably take over for the rest of the night, then." He continues, wiping at his moustache with a sniff. "Since we'd only need you for the phone."

Josianne peeks at the clock — it's barely 8:30. She doesn't want to admit she needs to pay from the additional hour. "I can stay."

Harry shakes his head, hands planted on his hips. The second he opens his mouth, one of the servers steals him away — something about one of the guests complaining about the high prices and requesting a discount. But he points at her as he walks off, not quite finished speaking. "Go home, Josianne. Before you exhaust yourself any further."

Only when she's positive she won't get marked down or, God forbid, fired for leaving early does she punch out and go behind the restaurant to get her bike. She shivers as soon as she steps out; it's freezing tonight, and she'd forgotten her jacket in the car. Slipping on the green sweater she'd worn earlier over her thin uniform, she hops on her bike, checking her school bag one last time to make sure she grabbed everything before heading off.

Hawkins is quiet tonight. Josianne's breath fogs in the dim lighting as she bikes through the town, having to swerve a few times when she drifts too far into the road. She's distracted, mind swimming; maybe it's a good thing she was cut early.

She brakes sharply under a stoplight outside the general store. Twisting her wrist to look at her watch — it's only 8:39 — she realizes Donald won't close up shop for another twenty minutes, give or take. After a short mental debate, she rolls her bike into the store, having a slight struggle with the door before pushing through. 

"Ms. Byers," Donald greets with his usual smile. He's mopping the floors — looks like he's the only one still working up front. "Your mom send you for more of those lights?"

"No, I—" Josianne stops, throwing him a weird look when his words register. "Lights? What lights?"

"She came by earlier and practically bought out the whole stock." Sure enough, a look at the shelf usually filled with Christmas lights shows the sizable dent in its stock. She thinks back to this morning, when Jonathan said their mother was adamant Will was trying to talk to her through their lamps. 

"Uh…" Her lips purse. "Nope. I'm not here for… more lights."

The older man nods, resting the mop against the counter; he knows she won't mind the informality of not putting it fully away. "Well then — can I help you with anything?"

Josianne awkwardly taps the handlebars of her bike. "… we need another phone. It got fried again."

She tried to call Barb this morning to make sure everything went all right after she stormed out of Steve's party, but upon going into the hallway, she realized their brand-new phone had been broken again. Something is going seriously haywire with their electricity; maybe Joyce missed a bill?

Donald deadpans, sighing through his nose. He's not sure why he's surprised at this point — Joyce has been coming into his store for the past three days, purchasing all sorts of stuff. "Do you need me to add it to her tab?"

"No, no… I can pay for it now."

He leaves the front of the store, returning shortly with a box holding the new phone. "Just this, then?"

Nodding, Josianne goes fishing through her bookbag for her wallet as he rings her up. "How much?"

"$25.56, with your mom's discount."

"Geez, that's with the discount?" She breathes, counting out the sum in small bills. When she comes up short by about four dollars, money fanned across the counter, she scrounges around for her coin purse, which, of course, she'd taken out of her bag last Friday to give Will some quarters for the arcade. Shit.

"… You know what," Donald hums, taking the bills and popping open the register. "Don't worry about the extra amount. You folks have had one hell of a week."

He's always had a soft spot for the Byers — Joyce is one of his best, and favorite, employees. He'd do anything for her if she asked hard enough, which is probably why she hasn't had to come in since Will went missing. Josianne was even gifted some of his late wife's dresses when she unfortunately passed last year — thought they were more "her style" than his granddaughter's. They're a little long on her, though; Mrs. Melvald was a tall woman.

"Thank you…" Josianne mumbles gratefully, slinging her bag back over her shoulder. Donald hands her the receipt, places the box in her bike basket, and bids her farewell and a 'lovely night'.

She peers up at the sky on the ride home; it's one of those nights where you can see the stars, bright and burning overhead, when you're not under the noisy streetlights. It's been so rainy the past few weeks — she's glad the sky gets a moment to breathe. She almost envies it, the sky; she needs a moment to breathe.

When Josianne rolls into the front yard, she swears she hears talking behind the house. She almost ignores it, thinking it's the wind playing tricks or maybe a couple walking down the street, but when it escalates to arguing, she creeps around the side to investigate, abandoning her bike on the porch along with her things. 

Thankfully, there's no need to be alarmed — it's only Dustin, Lucas, and Mike standing around with that girl they found the other night.

Okay, maybe there are a few reasons to be alarmed.

"What on Earth are the three of you doing?" She asks sharply — all four kids twist around to look at her, cursing at the scare. "And I thought we were gonna find this girl's parents?"

Mike jumps to explain, "No, listen. Her name is Eleven, El for short, and she has powers."

"Superpowers," Dustin adds with a wide grin.

"And we can't just give her to her parents, if she even has any — there are these bad men after her. Bad men, Senior. Bad men."

Josianne nods slowly, trying her hardest to make it feel like she's not losing her mind. "Right… El, honey — are you alright?"

The girl — Eleven — nods as well, managing a small smile. She's not as emotionless as when they'd found her in the woods; it's good to see whatever Mike's been doing has improved her overall mood. 

"Okay, good." The teen returns her gaze to the boys. "Why are you all here?"

"We told you!" Mike groans impatiently. "El has powers, and she's trying to help us find Will! She led us here."

"Whoa, hey — you never mentioned anything about using her to find Will."

"That seemed kind of obvious!"

"Obvious?"

Dustin shrugs. "Girl with powers, missing friend…"

"You know I'm not buying into the superpowers bullshit, right?" Josianne rubs her face, shaking her head side-to-side. This cannot be a legitimate conversation she's having right now.

"Oh, it's legit." Lucas sighs. "But it sounds crazy, we know."

"Now you're gonna help us validate this?!" Mike snaps. He's clearly been waiting for any excuse to yell at someone, and Lucas finally set him off. They bicker back and forth for a minute while the two girls watch, until Josianne can't take it anymore.

She grabs Mike by the shoulders, turning him to face her. "Michael. Go home. All of you, go home. And I won't tell you more than once, alright? No arguments."

"But we—"

"I said none!"

"Guys," Dustin calls over his shoulder, staring at something through the trees.

Mike shoves her off of him. "You never take us seriously! You're just like the cops — you're not letting us help!"

"I'm not letting you help because you could—"

"Guys!" Dustin repeats, louder now. Everyone finally looks his way, but his eyes remain focused on where blue and red lights zoom down the road. Sirens pierce the air as cop cars, firetrucks, and an ambulance speed past. 

Josianne doesn't wait for the kids — she snags her bike from the front, racing through the dirt. Her fingers tremble around the handlebars, every gasp of air feeling like she's trying to breathe through a straw; it makes her dizzy.

She follows the flashing lights all the way to the quarry, heart lodged tight in her throat like a stone she'd swallowed wrong. Her limbs and lungs are on fire, but she can't afford to lose the train of emergecy vehicles. Knees buckle when she steps off the bike — she catches herself on a parked firetruck, the metal rumbling against her fingertips with the strong hum of the engine.

Near the quarry's edge, Hopper stands with more cops and EMTs. Josianne can't see around them, but more firefighters are wading into the water, the heavy equipment making their movements sluggish. The sirens cut, silence welcoming the space. 

An EMT calls out to the Chief; he looks over, following his gaze, paleing when Josianne enters his line of sight. "Oh, God — please, no."

Hopper jogs over, quickly trying to guide the teen toward his truck. But he only makes matters worse as she thrashes in his hold; without him blocking the way, she has a clear view of the scene.