Joyce
"I have been waiting over an hour, Hopper!"

He sighs. "And I apologize again."

"I'm going out of my mind!"

"Look, boy his age, probably just playing hooky, okay?"

"No, not my Will. He's not like that. He wouldn't do that."

"Well, you never know. I mean, my mom thought I was on the debate team when really I was just screwing Chrissy Carpenter in the back of my dad's Oldsmobile, so . . ."

How is this guy the sheriff?

"Look, he's not like you, Hopper," I dismiss. "He's not like me. He's not like . . . most. He has a few friends, but, you know, the kids, they're mean. They make fun of him; they call him names. They laugh at him, his clothes—"

"His clothes? What's wrong with his clothes?"

"I don't know; does that matter?"

"Maybe."

"Look, he's . . . he's a sensitive kid. Lonnie . . ." I sigh. "Lonnie used to say he was queer. He called him a fag." I add the last part more quietly. {No wonder they divorced. He's an awful father.}

"Was he?"

Oh my God. "He's missing, is what he is!" I stick my cigarette in my mouth.

"When was the last time you heard from Lonnie?"

I scoff and sit across from Hopper at his desk. "Uh, last I heard, he was in Indianapolis. That was about a year ago. But he has nothing to do with this!"

"Why don't you give me his number?" Hopper asks, grabbing a pencil from his cup.

"You know, Hopper, he has nothing to do with this. Trust me."

"Joyce, ninety-nine out of a hundred times a kid goes missing, the kid is with a parent or relative." {But, honestly, why would he run away to someone who called him queer and a fag?}

"What about the other time?" {What about the one time?}

"What?"

"You said, 'ninety-nine out of a hundred.' What about the other time, the one?"

"Joyce—"

"The one?"

"Joyce, this is Hawkins, okay? You wanna know the worst thing that's ever happened here in the four years I've been working here? Do you want to know the worst thing? It was when an owl attacked Eleanor Gillespie's head because it thought her hair was a nest."

"Okay, fine. I will call Lonnie. He will talk to me before he talks to—"

"What, a pig?"

"A cop!" Jesus, this guy. "Just find my son, Hop! Find him!"

Dr. Brenner
"Dr. Brenner," one of the men greets, shaking my hand.

"This way, gentlemen," I say, leading them through the building. "The entire east wing will be evacuated within the hour. We've sealed off this area following quarantine protocol."

One of the guards unzips the curtain and I bring the men inside, where we suit them up for the quarantined room. We ride the elevator down, flashlight in hands. We walk through the hall, inspecting the walls, floors, and ceilings for any trace of the monster. Blood and goop splatters on the wall indicate it's come through here.

Going further inside, we eventually come to what looks to be its nest.

"This where it came from?" one man asks.

"Yes," another answers.

"And the girl?"

"She can't have gone far," I say.

Eleven {Oh yes.}
I walk through the trees, barefoot. I spot a little building and a man walks out, holding a big black bag. He shoves it into a big tin can and goes back inside. Maybe he has food.

I follow the man's steps inside and sneak in. I watch the man from before talk with other men. I hope they don't see me and enter through two big metal doors. I find a basket of something that looks able to be eaten and stuff it into my mouth, careful not to be seen. {I don't know if El would know what fries are so I'm just going with that lol}

The man yells at me and I guess he saw me. I grab the basket and run away. He grabs my shoulders and I think I'm in trouble.

(Y/N)
"Remember, finish chapter twelve and answer twelve-point-three on the difference between an experiment and other forms of scientific investigation. This will be on the test, which will cover chapters ten through twelve. It will be multiple choice . . . with an essay question . . . ," Mr. Clarke says, trailing off, as the bell rings and everyone hurries to gather their things and rush to the door, though they're not particularly listening. I, however, stay behind, along with Mike, Dustin, and Lucas, as we usually do. By the time Mr. Clarke turns back around to face us, we four are already lined up at his desk.

"Did it come?" Mike asks excitedly, just as eager as I.

"Sorry, kids," he says, and I frown. "I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but . . ." He pauses and his look of dismay turns to one of happiness. "It came."

We burst through the office door, yearning to use the new device.

"The Heathkit ham shack," Mr. Clarke says as we gather around the machine. "Ain't she a beaut?"

"I bet you could talk to New York with this thing!" Dustin exclaims.

"Think bigger," Mr. Clarke says.

"California?" Lucas asks.

"Bigger."

"South America?" Mike asks.

"Even bigger."

"Australia?" I ask. I know it's not the greatest probability, but I've always wanted to go there. {I really dooo someone take me there.}

Mr. Clarke nods and my eyes gleam with excitement.

"When Will sees this, he's totally gonna blow his shit!" Lucas proclaims.

"Lucas!" Mr. Clarke scolds.

"Sorry," Lucas apologizes. I chuckle but am still dismayed by the mention of Will. . . . I wish I could be sharing this moment with him.

The boys adjust the dials, trying to find Australia.

"Hello, this is Mike Wheeler, president of Hawkins AV Club," Mike says in an Australian accent. I have to admit; it's not bad.

I take Mike's headphones and say, "Hello, this (Y/N) (Last/N), vice president of Hawkins AV Club," in my best Australian accent, which I have been told is pretty good. {Well the last play I was in I was Australian so}

Dustin takes the headphones from me. "Hello, this is Dustin, and this is the secretary and treasurer of Hawkins AV Club. Do you eat kangaroos for breakfast?" I laugh and playfully smack his arm.

Lucas tries to take the headphones from Dustin, but we're interrupted the principal, accompanied by Chief Hopper and Deputy Callahan.

"Sorry to interrupt, but, uh, may I borrow Michael, Dustin, Lucas, and (Y/N)?" Principal Coleman asks, and a look of worry is bestowed upon each of our faces.

.^.^.^.^.

We're all shouting things at once, to the point where I don't know what anyone's saying, not even myself.

"Okay, okay, okay," Hopper interrupts, and we all shut up. "One at a time, all right? You." Mike nods. "You said he takes what?"

"Mirkwood," Mike answers.

"Mirkwood?"

"Yeah."

"Have you ever heard of Mirkwood?" Hopper asks Callahan.

"I have not. That sounds made up to me," Callahan answers.

"No, it's from Lord of the Rings," Lucas says.

"Well, The Hobbit," Dustin corrects.

"It doesn't matter," I hiss, worried to death about Will.

"He asked," Dustin says.

"He asked," Lucas mocks.

"Shut up!" Mike says, and I have to agree.

"Hey, hey, hey," Hopper says over the boys' arguing. "What did I say? One at a damn time. You."

"Mirkwood. It's a real road," Mike says. "It's just the name that's made up. It's where Cornwallis and Kerley meet."

"Yeah, all right, I think I know that—"

"We can show you, if you want," Mike continues.

"I said that I know that," Hopper says, much annoyed with us. "And, you." He looks directly at me. "You were the last to see him?"

"Yeah," I stutter. "He dropped me off at my house like usual then headed home. I don't know of anything that happened after that—"

"That's all I need to know," he says.

"We can help look for him," I say, moreover demanding than requesting.

"Yeah," Mike agrees.

"No," Hopper says.

"Please," I say, adding to the clamor from the boys. "Please let us help find him. Please." I want to make sure the only person I love more than Billy Joel is safe.

"No. After school, you are all to go home," Hopper says. "Immediately. That means no biking around looking for your friend, no investigating, no nonsense. This isn't some Lord of the Rings book."

"The Hobbit," Dustin corrects again.

"Shut up!" Lucas says, reaching over Mike and me to hit Dustin's leg. Dustin leans over us to strike Lucas back. I pull away from them to stay out of line of fire, as does Mike.

"Guys!" I groan.

"Do I make myself clear?" Hopper asks quietly, and Dustin and Lucas stop fighting. Hopper stands, towering over us, looking much more intimidating. "Do I make myself . . . clear?"

The boys mutter something of agreement, but I stay quiet. He's clear as a bell to me, but who says I'm not going to investigate?

Will's my best friend, more or less. If he's in trouble, I want to be right there by his side—maybe not always physically—to get him out of it.