Chapter Three ♰ 
A Lost Boy, a Found Girl

  𝕿he drive to school was surprisingly enjoyable. Matt could be funny when he wanted to be. And he had good taste in music, too. Tears for Fears, Depeche Mode, Pet Shop Boys—no matter what song came on, Matt was singing it. And Sydney joined in. It was almost normal. Father and Daughter laughing, singing terribly off-key and mimicking background vocals in silly voices. He had the windows of his truck rolled all the way down, arm dangling out of the window until he took a drag from the cigarette between his fingers, and Sydney was smiling pretty much the entire ride there.

  And then they reached Hawkins High, Matt parking right by the entrance, and the music stopped. They both sat in a stretch of silence, trying to comprehend the past twenty minutes of feeling content and just easy. In the absence of raw eggs, hostility and sixteen years of rue, they got along. Matt didn't have to try painstakingly to get her to laugh—it was just effortless. Forlornly, he wished this could've been her whole life. If he knew the kind of smiles it'd earn him, Matt would've been driving her to school every single day.

  "Well," said Sydney, shattering the silence, "I should..."

  "Right, yeah," agreed Matt with an emphatic nod. "Education is important."

  Sydney's lips twitched a bit. "I'll—I'll see you at home."

  Home. Had she ever called it that before? Home to Sydney was Loch Nora—that big fancy house with the heated swimming pool and an entire room just for Christine to do work in. Since when was home Matt's cabin on the filthy shore of Lover's Lake?

  "Yes. See you then."

  Sydney went to lean over the console and hug him, but she hesitated. Had she ever hugged her father? Sure, he had held her as a baby—there was photographic evidence. But Sydney meant actually hug him. Feel the hummingbird of his heart against her ear as he held her in a way that made her feel safe. No. Matt had never hugged her like that.

  The instinct for affection died in her belly. Sydney swept up her bag from the footwell and shouldered the strap, giving Matt a strained smile and hopping out of his truck. He called something after her, poking his head out the window a bit like an enthusiastic dog, but Sydney didn't hear what he said. She just kept walking towards the doors.

  The hallway was still teeming with teens. Swathes of groups scattered around by the lockers, taking books out, putting them in, and gossiping about fatuous rumours. Sydney would love if everything could just stop—she'd kill for a day of nothing. Just feeling numb. A hollow 24 hours of no emotions or noise or people. Just her. Still. Placated.

  She'd felt this way ever since she got the call from Matt telling her about the crash. Sydney had been at a party—almost catatonic drunk, feeling so sick she thought she might vomit all of her guts up in the hydrangeas of whoever's fancy house she was at. The bass of the music had been so loud she felt it in her bones. Matt dialled the last number Christine had called—the phone of whoever's party Sydney had been dragged to—and he told her everything. He had been crying, too. Telling her he was on his way, that she shouldn't be alone right now, and the ambulance was on its way for Chris. That it's too late. Sydney just remembered a homicidal rage blistering at her skin. That she wanted every last obnoxious teenager at that party to just drop dead with a simultaneous thud. That she wanted Matt to crash on the way there, too. The music to die and the lovers kissing to choke on each other's tongues and for all of it to stop. Just STOP.

  But the world doesn't wait for grieving girls. It leaves them behind.

  Sydney found Toby at her locker. She kept thinking about what Matt said—about how Toby looked at her. Sure, she noticed the softening of his eyes and lingering of his stares, but she had pinned it down on his concern for her after Christine died. Not love. Never love.

  He perked up as soon as he saw her, pushing himself off the locker and smiling at her widely, nervously. "Hey, how'd it go with Matt?"

  "Good, actually," said Sydney as she put in her locker combination.

  "Oh?" mused Toby.

  "Yeah—I mean, there was a bit of a sore spot when he showed me all of the letters I used to send him and claimed I was 'better off without him'... But other than that, it was alright."

  Toby blinked. "Your life has really gone to shit."

  "Tell me about it," she muttered sourly.

  "I don't think I'll ever got over Nancy dating Steve Harrington."

  Sydney closed her locker and turned around. They were certainly a mismatched group. Tommy H. and Carol Perkins had been dating off-and-on since preschool—a volatile, elusive kind of affair. Steve Harrington—king of Hawkins High (asshole)—was kind of like the glue fusing them together. The three of them were mean and rich and good looking, the archetype of high school royalty. Retrospectively, a bit like Matt. A star athlete, popular, had Varsity gleaming in his future, but he peaked in these very hallowed halls. His life after was atrophying organs and loneliness and a dead ex-girlfriend. 

  Nancy Wheeler, though. She was, well, perfect. In hindsight, if Steve was Matt, Nancy was Christine. An Ivy League prodigy from the end of Maple Street which her nuclear family and soft-coloured clothes. Her and her best friend, Barbara, weren't the type of girls you'd find around people like Steve, Tommy and Carol. They were saccharine and clever—Steve and his friends were like the nagging throb of a cavity.

  "Naw, jealous, Tobes?" drawled Sydney, pinching his cheek.

  Toby swatted her away with a scowl. His first girlfriend had been Nancy. Well, girlfriend was laying it on a bit thick. They had kissed rather clumsily at someone's twelfth birthday party—knocked teeth, bumped foreheads, not known where to put their clammy, fidgeting hands. For the following week, they tried the dating thing. Toby made her a picnic and Nancy weaved him a little bracelet out of daisies. The relationship was brief. Since they were friends, they tried never to think about that phase ever again.

  "Fuck off," he sneered. "I just mean—Nancy's... Nancy! And Steve's so ...—"

  "Steve?" Sydney offered, eyes raking over the boy's pretty hair and his obnoxious stance—hands on his hips, a bit like a dad reprimanding his child.

  Toby nodded, glaring at Steve. "Exactly."

  "Jesus. This should be interesting."

  Nancy had just split from the rest of the group to approach Jonathan—with the hesitance of a hunter to a bathing, wounded animal. Her textbooks were cradled to her chest and Jonathan was pinning what looked like a poster of Will up on a notice-board. Sydney—ever the observer—instantly noticed the way they looked side-by-side. Nancy was a sylphlike girl with a well-off family. Her outfit complimented that: a long, pleated skirt and a pretty, lilac jumper with a little ribbon bow around the neckline. But Jonathan wore the same jacket as he always did—a denim, Sherpa coat, the fur lining that was once white when he bought it now a faded, brownish colour. He looked gaunt and miserable, recoiling as soon as he noticed Nancy. But Nancy was poised, and her face—pretty, angular, with subtle makeup—was full of life.

  "The Nancy Wheeler Outreach Programme," mused Sydney. "She's collecting traumatised boys."

  "She's nice," said Toby defensively. "Besides, what's Steve Harrington got to be traumatised about?"

  Sydney wouldn't tell him that she had lived across the road from Steve in Loch Nora. Big house, no parents. His dad was a reserved businessman, with a bad habit for drinking and cheating on his wife. They were hardly ever there, from what Sydney could remember. And, when they were, some of the arguments could be heard from the other side of the street. Mr Harrington's bellowing and his wife's hysterics as she found another woman's bra tucked beneath their shared bed—sometimes Mr Harrington would be yelling at Steve. Sometimes Steve yelled back. It was either house of slamming doors, breaking vases, and militant fights, or silence.

  Sydney glanced back at Nancy and Jonathan—the conversation looked fairly one-sided on the girl's behalf. She guessed she was offering her support. That's the kind of girl Nancy was. Saintly.

  The school bell started to blare.

  "Great. Chemistry." Toby spoke with the utmost contempt.

  "Hey, uh—tell Kaminsky I'll be late."

  Nancy was walking back to Steve, who draped his arm round her shoulders and brought her into his side, pecking her temple. As they walked past, Steve looked sparingly at Sydney. He seemed to absentmindedly smile, and used the hand that wasn't wrapped around Nancy to wave at her briefly.

  Sydney didn't wave back.

  "Do you have any intention of being in school today?" demanded Toby as Sydney started to walk over to Jonathan.

  "Nope."

  The hallway crowd dispersed to their lessons quickly enough. Sydney walked slowly toward the noticeboard, wanting to wait for everyone else to be gone to actually talk with Jonathan. It was only when the last classroom door shut that she actually tapped on his shoulder.

  Jonathan flinched, swearing aggressively as he turned around with blown eyes. "Sydney. It's you."

  "Yeah, hi. I just wanted to say—I went to the station this morning," she told him nonchalantly. "There's a search party being put together, and Hopper's determined to—"

  "Yeah, I know," interjected Jonathan. Sydney fell short, frowning. "Thanks," he added hastily. "It's only that—"

  "You're scared," stated Sydney bluntly.

  Jonathan nodded, sullen. "I just want him home."

  Sydney glanced at the poster. Will was a cute kid. He had a mop of sandy-blonde hair, cut into a shiny bowl-cut, and the sweetest pair of doe, honey eyes. His pallid, shy face was specked with the odd few moles and his smile was infectious. He was a good kid—Sydney knew that from seeing him around town, belly-laughing with his friends, and biking up steep roads.

  "Is there anything I can do to help?" she implored.

  Jonathan's eyes flashed to her. "You don't have to—"

  "When I lost my mom, I thought the world was going to end," said Sydney earnestly. "I thought everything would spin out and everything would change. But it didn't. The only thing that changed was that my mom was gone. Everything kept spinning. It's horrible that it all still spins even though the one you love the most isn't here."

  She spoke with such vulnerability she couldn't actually believe they were her words.

  "I want to help you find Will," Sydney asserted. "I want to bring him home. Because—well, because my mom will never be home again."

  Taken aback by her solemnity, Jonathan nodded slowly. "Yeah... Yeah, thanks, Sydney. I'll be sure to come to you first if I need anything."

  Sydney smiled gravely and went off to class. Kaminsky droning on about stoichiometry blurred into a formless bleed of noise into the back of her head. Sydney used to excel at school —she was the daughter of a bluestocking lawyer, after all. But ever since the crash, she hadn't cared about her studies as much as she used to. Grades started to slip and attention dwindled. She'd carve into her desk until the polished oak splintered or she'd doodle so aggressively into her notepads the paper teared or she'd simply think.

  Now, she thought about Matt, and his hoarding of all her letters, polaroids, and sketches. Will Byers and that innocent, pearly smile of his—where he could be, if he was all right. How Jonathan and Joyce must be feeling. Toby and what Matt had said—those looks and what they might mean. Sydney even let her mind drift to Steve Harrington and that nonchalant wave that could've meant absolutely nothing. But he waved at her. They bump into each other once in the girls' bathroom, and she called him a pervert, and suddenly he acknowledged her existence?

  It just felt wrong.

  Kaminsky's class ended and Sydney left with a notebook full of scribbles and absolutely no notes about Chemistry. That's how pretty much the entire day went—class, overthinking, class, overthinking, on a brutal repeat. Until finally the bell tolled the end of the day and Sydney could finally meet Toby in the carpark for their routine drive home together.

  Sydney didn't have the luck of crossing the busy carpark without interference as she usually did. She had been narrowly avoiding getting ran over when a car pulled up aside of her and started honking its horn. Apprehensively, Sydney halted and narrowed her eyes at the vehicle—a shining burgundy BMW with white leather seats—that definitely didn't belong to Toby. He wouldn't even able to afford filling the car's tank, never mind paying for the insurance and purchasing the car itself.

  No, a testament to the price of this car was the boy in its driver's seat—none other than Steve Harrington.

  "Hey, bathroom girl," called Steve.

  He had one arm obnoxiously draped out of his open window and the other extended in front of him to hold the steering-wheel. Surprisingly, he didn't have anyone else in his car. Not Tommy and Carol, not even Nancy. It was just him and his tousled hair.

  Sydney pulled a face. "God, don't call me that."

  "Well, you never told me your name," Steve remarked, cocking a brow.

  "It's Sydney," she said through gritted teeth.

  "Like Australia."

  "What do you want, Harrington?" demanded Sydney.

  Steve shrugged, reclining back arrogantly in his chair. "I was just wondering if you wanted a lift. You only live across the road, right? Figured there's no harm in it."

  Sydney's eye twitched. "I don't live there anymore."

  "Oh." Steve's face fell comically. "I'm sorry, I didn't—"

  "Even if I did," she added irritably, "you have a girlfriend."

  Steve frowned. "I offered you a lift, I didn't ask you to climb into bed with me."

  "Sure, but if I were Nancy, I wouldn't want my boyfriend handing out rides to random girls they bumped into in the girls' bathroom."

  "You say that like it's a normal thing for guys to bump into pretty girls in girls' bathrooms."

  Sydney's eyes narrowed cruelly. "Stop pretending like we know each other. It's annoying. And conceited."

  "What's the harm in being friends, Sydney?"

  "I haven't got time for this."

  She started to stalk off to where Toby usually parked, but Steve started to drive after her, mimicking her pace.

  "Leave me alone!" Sydney shouted.

  A few people passing by sent her weird looks, but she didn't care. She was too busy glaring at the amused expression on Steve's face. His eyes widened animatedly, brows raising wryly, and he smirked.

  "I get the feeling you don't like me."

  "Really?" sneered Sydney. "What gave off that impression?"

  Steve laughed a bit. "I like you, Sydney. You should come to this party I'm hosting tonight—it'll only be lowkey. At my place—big house, no parents."

  "Sounds depressing."

  "So, are you in?"

  Sydney, still walking, and him still trailing after her at a snail's pace, feigned contemplation, humming. "Let's think—No."

  "Shame," said Steve, jutting out his bottom lip. "I'd like to have you there. But it's on you, Sydney."

  "Bye, Harrington," she seethed pointedly.

  "Later, Sommers."

  Then, he put his foot on the gas and sped irresponsibly off the carpark, sending a group of friends dispersing and yelling in protest when he nearly fractured half of their feet. Sydney stared maliciously after the car before she hastened across the parking lot until she finally reached Toby's derelict Corolla. Muttering to herself, she vehemently cranked open the passenger door and slid in, throwing her bag into the backseat.

  "You seem agitated," teased Toby.

  "Just drive," Sydney muttered, resting her elbow on the window ledge and pinching the bridge of her nose.

  He turned on the ignition and started to drive out of his spot. "Did I just see you with Harrington?"

  His tone was nervous. Like he dreaded the answer.

  "He invited me to a stupid party he's having tonight."

  Toby's breath hitched and he tried to suppress looking as stressed as he felt. "And... what did you say?"

  "No, of course," said Sydney quickly, scathingly.

  "Right. Of course. Since when was he so interested in you?"

  "He's not," she scowled. "He just knows I'm not interested in him and it's like an itch he can't scratch."

  Toby hummed to himself. "So it's, like, he wants you to want him."

  "Sounds like something arrogant enough for Steve Harrington to think."

  Toby, diligently, dropped Sydney off at home. Home. It was so much like a home that Matt's neighbour—Josiah, a war veteran with haunted eyes but a kind smile—waved at her from the wraparound porch of his cabin when Sydney got out of the car. Affably, Sydney waved back and Josiah tilted his newsboy cap at her before going back to watering the patch of camellias he had blooming.

  Toby beeped his horn before driving off, the wheels kicking up an air of dust as they rolled over the gravelled driveway. Sydney walked up the three steps and unlocked the porch door, kicking her shoes off as she came inside. Music was blaring from within the kitchen—the sound of Dexy's Midnight Runners and the truck on the drive telling her that Matt was home before she even saw him.

  And there he was, donning some dad jeans and a jacquard sweater, dancing gracelessly about to Come On, Eileen.

  "Oh hey, kiddo!" Matt beamed, noticing her and slowing his dancing down to an awkward side-to-side sway.

  "Hi," greeted Sydney. As she walked past, he grabbed her hand and spun her under his arm. Sydney laughed, spinning out until she grabbed the back of one of the dining chairs and sat down. "You're in a good mood."

  "It's a good day," replied Matt. He reached behind him and grabbed an open bottle of Budweiser from off the countertop. "An old friend of Hopper's—Earl—came into the station today. A witness, for Benny Hammond's death."

  Sydney frowned. Benny Hammond owned a rundown diner near the thicket of woods at the edge of Hawkins. She hadn't known him, or ever really been a customer at the diner. But when Matt told her last night that he was found dead, he had seemed pretty devastated, and told her solemnly that he was a good guy.

  "And that's... good?"

  "Well, not Benny being dead, kid—what Earl said," said Matt, pulling up a chair across from her. "He said that he saw a kid at the diner just before Benny—you-know-what. Scrawny, only small, terrified."

  Realisation dawned on Sydney with wide eyes. "Will?"

  "Well. That's we're hoping..." Matt leaned back in his chair, gulping down some of his beer. "Earl said the kid had buzzed hair, but Hop's just focusing on the coincidence of a boy who could fit Will's description turning up."

  "That's good then, isn't it?" asked Sydney desperately. "It's a lead!"

  Matt shrugged. "I mean, sure. But this was last night. If it was Will, he could be anywhere by now."

  Sydney nodded slowly, thinking. She honestly didn't know why she was so on edge about Will Byers being missing. Maybe what she said to Jonathan earlier had been the truth—her own grief over losing Christine might've had made her more empathetic to broken families. All she knew was that she wanted Will home. That a kid like him—lithe and bony and meek—didn't have much chance of surviving alone in the world.

  "I think I'm gonna go out for a few hours, Matt."

  Matt watched, a bit startled, as Sydney stood suddenly from her seat. "Oh? Erm. All right. Where?"

  "Just—Toby's. To help out with his mom again."

  God, she needed to stop using Imani's sickness as a scapegoat. The truth was—Sydney had a theory. If whatever reason, Will felt too scared to go home, she had a hunch on where else he might go to seek refuge from whatever was frightening him. His usual haunt was the dingy sanctuary of Mike Wheeler's basement. Back when Sydney used to babysit Lucas Sinclair—arguably the most outspoken member of their 'party'—he'd have her drop him off there for their campaigns of Dungeons & Dragons that'd last hours.

  From what she knew about those kids—particularly Lucas, who she obviously knew better—they were loyal, thick as thieves. A devoted group with true blue hearts who probably wouldn't even testify if one of them committed a murder. So, if Will really was seeking asylum in Mike Wheeler's basement, they wouldn't say. That's the kind of kids they were. Brazen and plucky and selfless. Also, a little driven by the heroism of their board-games fantasies.

  "Oh, alright," said Matt, blinking. "Well, will you be home for pizza? With mushrooms—like I promised."

  Sydney nodded adamantly. "Of course. I won't stay long."

  "All right, then. Be safe, kiddo."

  He awkwardly patted her shoulder before she left, and Sydney took her bike. It was periwinkle blue and had a little basket at the front—one of the few things she didn't give away to charity after moving. She had grabbed her Walkman and headphones off of the countertop before leaving, so she threw the cassette-player in the basket and shoved the headphones over her ears before kicking off from the ground.

  The cassette already in there was Rumours by Fleetwood Mac. Meaning she spent the entire ride to Mike Wheeler's conservative, suburban home listening to the bleeding voices of Lindsey Buckingham, Stevie Nicks and Christine McVie. That album was like a drug to her—if she could inject into her bloodstream, she would. It felt like a piece of her mother, forever scarred into earth by the eternity of music. Her mother had always loved that she shared a name with Christine McVie—whom, in her humble opinion, was the most talented vocalist of the band. A testament to her second favourite member, Chris gave Sydney the middle name Stevie. After Stevie Nicks.

  A piece of Christine Sommers lived within every last song on this album, shining most brilliantly within The Chain. For as long as Sydney listened to these songs, Chris wouldn't be ephemeral. She'd be alive—twirling around in the living room in the candlelight or screaming her throat raw in the car.

  Sydney reached Maple Street in no time, jumping off her bike before even properly slowing down, staggering along with it until she was at the Wheeler's front door and rapping on it with her knuckles. Night had fallen—so it was just her, chirping crickets, rustling bushes, and the moonlight.

  Karen Wheeler answered the door with her youngest daughter, Holly, attached to her hip.

  "Sydney!" she exclaimed. Whether her surprise came from a place of delight or confusion, Sydney didn't particularly care. "Are you here to pick up Lucas? I didn't realise you were still his babysitter. Though, I suppose his parents are on edge about the Will thing—"

  "Yeah, I am," interjected Sydney with a frantic nod. "Yeah, uh, Mr and Mrs Sinclair are really concerned."

  Karen pouted. "Oh, I know. It really is a shame. Well, I'll go fetch Lucas for you, Sydney—"

  "No! I can go get him, Mrs Wheeler, really," Sydney protested.

  Karen looked at warily for a second, but obliged, stepping aside with Holly waggling her chubby fingers in an innocent wave at Sydney. "Okay... sure."

  "Thanks, Mrs Wheeler. Lifesaver."

  Sydney dropped her bike to the footpath with a clatter and barged into the Wheeler's residence. Abrasively, she ignored Ted Wheeler's attempt at a conversation when he started to ask how Matt was by shouting something about 'being in a rush', and hastened right towards the door leading to their basement. She hadn't even announced herself before impetuously bolting down the uneven, wooden steps, hoping that she'd catch the kids off-guard just in case they really were hiding Will here.

  "Shit, someone's coming—" Dustin.

  "Shit! Hide her, now!" Mike.

  There was the frantic sound of scrambling, causing Sydney to jump down the last three steps, almost spraining her ankle in a rather unceremonious landing. "A-ha!"

  "Sydney?" demanded Lucas.

  "Who's that?" asked Sydney, pointing at the obvious shape of a child struggling underneath a threadbare blanket that one of them had tossed over the kid when she came bursting in. "Is that Will—?"

  "Will?" exclaimed Dustin, moving to block the figure under the blanket, Mike shifting attentively to do the same. "Why would Will be here? Of course it's not Will!"

  Sydney raised a brow at his ramblings, and peered around the little wall the three of them were forming. They had made a little den out of two chairs, with a quilt on the floor and plenty of pillows to the cushion the fort. It was illuminated by a torch, brightening up the blanket cast over the two chairs—a bit of eyeing the dimple in the duvet and the plushness of the pillows told her that whoever had been crashing there had been doing so for at least night. 'Will' was now rustling under the blanket throwing over his head, wrestling with it and mewling out whimpered protests.

  "Hey, it's all right if it is, I won't tell if you just—"

  "What are you even doing in my house?" yelled Mike accusingly, throwing his arms about. "This is breaking and entering!"

  Sydney frowned. "Your mom let me in."

  "Well, that's lying and entering!" said Mike.

  "Whatever, kid, just— is he alright?" asked Sydney, gesturing at the fighting shadow. "A lot of people are worried about him, and if they find out you've been keeping him here, you could get into a lot of trouble."

  Lucas turned to his friends desperately. "Guys, we should tell her."

  "No way!" Mike squawked in protest. "Her dad's a cop, she can't be trusted with this!"

  Sydney took offense to that, frowning. "Hey!"

  "Lucas is right, Mike—if you won't let us tell your parents, let's tell Sydney," said Dustin with a shrug. "She's cool."

  "She's hardly cool."

  "I'm right here," snapped Sydney.

  Lucas rolled his eyes. "You used to love her hanging around. When she stopped showing up for campaigns, you were always like, Where's Sydney? Is Sydney not coming today?"

  Mike blushed furiously. "Hey, that's not true!"

  As the three of them argued amongst themselves, tossing petty insults and hurling ugly words their mothers would probably give them a mean backhand upside the head for saying, Sydney walked around them towards the little den at the back of the basement. They were so caught up in their immature spat that they didn't even realise Sydney tenderly knelt onto the floorboards—not even when they creaked under her weight. She rolled her eyes at the back of their heads as they squabbled before reaching out hesitantly and peeling the blanket from off of the hidden child.

  "What the fuck—"

  "Now, look, Lucas!" screamed Mike.

  "Me?" bellowed Lucas. "You're the moron who didn't sort this out like we agreed—"

  This definitely wasn't Will. This was a little girl. Granted, she didn't have the usual hair of a girl—instead, just like how Matt described, she had it buzzed to a her scalp. She had an angular, frightened face—and she such pale skin that Sydney wondered if she ever felt sunlight. She blinked dolefully with her honey eyes up at Sydney, shrinking inwardly on herself.

  She was buried in the surplus material of what was probably Mike Wheeler's clothes—a navy blue jumper and greyish joggers that had been rolled up at least four times up on her skinny ankles. 

  "That's— " Sydney faltered, dropping onto her backside and roughly hitting her tailbone against the floorboards, "not Will."

  "We did try telling you," muttered Mike.

  "Who are you, huh?" Sydney asked the girl gently. The girl blinked and glanced at Mike, Dustin, and Lucas reluctantly—confidingly: She trusted these boys. She looked at them as friends. "I won't hurt you. I'm a friend, too. My name's Sydney."

  "She is a friend," agreed Dustin, testifying. "I promise."

  Sydney smiled a little to herself, fondly. He still had his lisp. Some things never change. He used to be insecure about his speech impediment, but Sydney told him that she once suffered with a stammer as a little girl—the speech therapist Christine took her too had said it could've come from childhood trauma. Such as her emotional development being put on hold because of an absent parent, or any other kind of fracture in the environment. It had come back in the two months after Chris died, too. Sydney would stutter over the little words she could manage in the aftermath. Dustin, vulnerably, had told her one night he had got bullied for his lack of teeth. He had been tearful and hurt and had thrown his arms around her when she came to pick Lucas up from Mike's. She had comforted him by saying that nobody else mattered when it came to his features and his body and his mind. That the way he spoke and the way his teeth looked were no testament to him as a person.

  "See?" said Sydney warmly. "I'm a friend. Sydney."

  "Sid-knee."

  Sydney nodded along—the girl spoke a bit disjointedly, as if English wasn't her first language. "Yeah. Sydney. Can you tell me your name?"

  The girl braced herself, glancing again at the boys, who all gave assuring nods—even Mike, who seemed the most protective over the ghostly girl in his basement. With a bated breath, she tugged up the oversized sleeve of the jumper, exposing her nimble wrist, and the tattoo needled into her flesh. It was onyx-black and very real. The number: 011. Like a branding. Sydney gasped. Who would do that to a little girl? 

  Mark them like cattle for the slaughterhouse?

  "That's your name?" checked Sydney, lost. "Eleven?"

  'Eleven' nodded, grave.

  Sydney looked back at the boys. "She's called Eleven? Where did you find her? Why has she got—"

  "I knew we shouldn't have told her!" said Mike scathingly, glaring at Dustin and Lucas.

  "We found her in the woods," explained Dustin, ignoring Mike's anger. "We went looking for Will—"

  "And found the weirdo instead," said Lucas sourly.

  Sydney pursed her lips, turning round again at Eleven and her wide, timid eyes. She was a fawn in headlights. "Do you know where your parents are? Anything?"

  Eleven shook her head.

  "She has superpowers!" blurted Dustin excitedly.

  "Dude!" chastised Mike, smacking his arm.

  "What?" said Dustin. "It's Sydney!"

  Sydney's brows furrowed. "Superpowers?"

  "Yeah, like Jean Grey in The X-Men comics!" enthused Dustin. "She can move things with her mind—"

  "You're... telekinetic?" Sydney asked her slowly.

  Eleven looked just as lost. "Tele- what?"

  "Guys, I know you probably feel responsible for Eleven, but I really should tell Matt that she's here—"

  "Who the hell is Matt?" sneered Mike.

  "Her dad," stated Dustin.

  Mike made a face. "You call your dad by his name?"

  "She's working through some things, okay?" said Lucas defensively, giving Sydney a firm nod, as if communicating: you owe me one. 

  "She might have a family looking for her!" she insisted.

  "The only people looking for El are bad men!" said Mike stubbornly. "There's no way we're risking telling your stupid cop dad if there's a chance they might get her, okay?"

  Sydney frowned, glancing back at Eleven, feeling like she might give herself whiplash with all this craning of her neck. "Is that true, Eleven? There's bad men after you?"

  Eleven nodded. "Bad men."

  "God, this is bad," said Sydney, standing up from the floor. She started raking her fingers through her dishevelled hair. "This is so fucking bad. Will's missing, now there's some malnourished kid in your basement—with a tattoo and bad men after her. This is so stupidly bad."

  "We're handling it, all right?" defended Mike.

  "No, we're not," retorted Lucas. "I told him we should tell our parents."

  "They can't be trusted!" seethed Mike. "How many times do I have tell you?"

  Without Sydney nor the bickering boys even noticing, Eleven crawled out from her little den and moved to the other side of the basement. Sydney just watched as Dustin, Mike and Lucas started quarrelling once again, affronting each other and wrangling over what they should do with the girl. Meanwhile, Sydney tried to wrap her head around all of this. Somewhat, she had been right. Mike, Lucas, and Dustin were the type of boys to hide a missing kid from the police and their parents. But everything else she had spiralled over couldn't be further from the truth.

  Will Byers was still very much a lost boy. He could be anywhere by now. Wounded in the woods, or in the shadows of some creep's cellar or—God forbid—dead. Instead, there was a girl Sydney had never seen before seeking asylum within the comfort of a spare quilt and the polyester of Mike Wheeler's outgrown clothes. A girl with ink etched into her flesh, a haunting in her eyes, and cheekbones so gaunt Sydney wondered if she had been fed properly.

  Bad men. That's what the boys had said, Eleven assenting. Bad men. What did they mean by bad men? Was it her parents? Were they abusive? Did they starve her—or was she held hostage? For how long? She spoke brokenly, like a child who had barely learned words.

  Was that it? Had Eleven escaped a captor, and these boys—these little heroes who had been courageously searching for their lost friend in the woods—found this regressed girl and brought her back here?

  "What's the weirdo doing?"

  The boys' fight had finally ended, and drew the attention back to El—as Mike had affectionately called her. Sydney liked that a lot more to Eleven. It felt less bureaucratic. Less like a lamb for an abattoir.

  Sydney followed the boys hesitant steps over to where Eleven had now sat herself at their gaming table, her palms laying flat on the board they used to play Dungeons & Dragons. Her eyes were shut firmly with concentration, moving fervently behind the lids as if in R.E.M. Sydney, Dustin, Lucas, and Mike circled the table, all exchanging perturbed glances.

  "What is she doing?" Sydney demanded. "Is this part of the Jean Grey thing?"

  "El?" said Mike, concerned.

  Soundlessly, El opened her eyes and picked up one of the figurines from off the board—but she didn't choose it absentmindedly. This plucking of pieces was meaningful. She lifted it up to her eyeline, surveying the Magic User. Sydney didn't remember a lot about the game from the few times Lucas had implored her to join in on a campaign—in all honesty, she had just went along with it because Mr and Mrs Sinclair paid her by the hour. She was pretty crap at it. But, she had remembered that Will was the Magic User. He used to cast the spells, like Fireball and Protection enchantments.

  He had also sketched a surprisingly good drawing of their party that he had commissioned for Mike's birthday last year. He had shown it Sydney first—he wanted an 'outsider's opinion' on whether it was good enough to gift Mike. Sydney had always thought that Will had a soft spot for Mike—a crush. He spoke about him the most intimately. Always enthusiastically chatting about his friends but none as passionately as Mike. Even in the drawing, Will's character, Will the Wise, the Magic User, had been stood companionably shoulder-to-shoulder with Mike's, the Dungeon Master.

  Sydney looked between the three boys, stunned. "Isn't that—"

  "Will," said Eleven quietly.

  "Superpowers," marvelled Dustin.

  Mike pulled up the chair next to El, slipping into it and leaning in eagerly. "Did you see him? On Mirkwood? Do you know where he is?"

  El stared Mike bluntly in the eyes, before scattering the rest of the figurines off of the table in one fell swoop. They clattered onto the floor near Sydney's feet, but she didn't care. She was too busy trying to understand what the fuck was caring to acknowledge the little figurine of a dwarf bouncing off her converse.

  Silently, El grabbed the opposite end of the board and flipped it upside down, moving so agilely that Sydney could only guess this was relevant. She stared down at the upside down of the board—it was a black abyss. Nothingness. Oblivion. Then, El picked up the Magic User's gamepiece again and slammed it down on the flipside.

  "What the hell?" Sydney muttered to Lucas. He just shrugged at her, just as lost.

  "I don't understand," said Mike.

  El glared right into the oblivion and Will's figurine drowning in it. "Hiding."

  "Will is hiding?" clarified Mike. "From the bad men?" El shook her head brusquely. "Then from who?"

  One other figurine had apparently survived her nonchalant attack, because she picked it up and solidified its place on the upside down alongside Will. The Demogorgon. Now, Sydney really was out of it. The miniature had a reptilian body, two Mandril heads, a fork, whip-like tail, and arms ending in gangly tentacles. In the game, it was one of the toughest monsters. Demonic and almost undefeatable.

  She felt like this was one fat, elaborate joke. Maybe Will was hiding in the bathroom and El was just some girl from their school who they had persuaded into their silly little game to fool everybody in Hawkins into believing something horrible had happened? Maybe the ritualism of Dungeons & Dragons, just as the tabloids and televangelists said, had infected their minds with this Satanic tumour—poisoned them to believing in monsters and girls with superpowers?

  "What. The. Fuck?"

edited. 09/03/25