〝 𝑖.

. . .

OCTOBERβ € β‚‚β‚β €κ“Ήβ €β‚β‚‰β‚ˆβ‚„

Moving was a concept she never thought she would have to experience for herself. Her clothes, her tapes, her journals, old and worn, were things she hadn't thought she would put into boxes until the time had come for her to live in her own apartment; until she was stepping out of teenage dependence and into a new realm of freedom.

She wasn't sure if that was even a possibility anymore, freedom, as stuck as she felt. She tucked everything safely away in cardboard and bubble wrap in the span of a week with a reluctance that made her feel helpless, and that possibility had faded before her eyes, seemingly gone forever. She felt like she was looking longingly through the bars of a cage at something that had once been so close but now felt so out of reach.

Eyes glazed over at the sight of moving trucks and empty rooms, saying goodbye to the friends she had; it was foreign . . . an unwelcome feeling that left her hollow in a place she couldn't find.

And yet . . . She felt relieved, also, going somewhere new.

It was an escape route, a chance to disembarass herself from that house and that street and that feeling that came with both . . . the memory β€” that most of all. It was always with them. It was etched into the walls and inscribed upon their minds no matter how many years passed, lingered on the skin like some foul odour that neither denial nor copious amounts of distraction and feigned ignorance could rid them of.

Though it wasn't as if they ever tried.

They had not forgotten, as much as he wanted them to.

They never would. She never would. She would never forgive him for taking them further than any of them wanted β€” for depriving her of an opportunity, a path of her own to take . . . a chance to be free of him.

His cards were staked against hers. She knew it. He knew it, a twinkle of utter triumph in his eyes and all.

Moving away from California was nothing less than a punishment for Neil Hargrove's children.

He never said it and yet the look on his face when he watched her pack her things told her it was. The rage in Billy's eyes that held firm while they sat in the back of the family truck for thirty-two hours told her it was.

Thirteen days passed in Hawkins before they began to unpack anything but furniture and dishes; amongst other 'necessary' things. The house sat there half-full and the rental truck sulked on their driveway half-empty until they had no choice but to give it up and leave things stranded in the garage.

Billy and Rowen had only begun to take their belongings and put them in their respective places that morning . . . but not because they wanted to, no. They only did it because the school was taking unnecessarily long with his and Max's transcripts. They only did it because they were unbelievably, mind-numbingly bored, and there wasn't anything openly interesting that they could do in Hawkins.

There had been a definite lack of enthusiasm upon their arrival in more ways the one; their blatant distaste for moving away from home being one, the lack of welcomes and such from all but one neighbor being the other.

Hawkins might as well have been a ghost town had it not been for the presence of a few people they passed on the streets, and her dad had chosen to cart them to Indiana because of it; because it was such a stark contrast to what they were used to. It was quiet, it was gray, and the siblings were still trying to decide if the town was truly dull; if the streets were truly crowded with goody-two-shoes and clean accounts all throughout, or if there was some kind of underbelly that was so well hidden that not even the most knowledgable, stewardly residents could pick up on it. Some kind of other world their dad had missed . . . She would be shocked if there was.

People just looked bored in this place, and though she had a hunch there were some who tried making things interesting, it was difficult to tell who was faking and who genuinely looked like, if they had the chance, they would choose to live anywhere else.

That gave her both an intrigued and hopeless feeling; because on one hand, if Hawkins really was a dead end, then her metaphorical cage would only seem more real. It would shrink inwards, get tighter, maybe suffocate her if she stayed long enough. But on the other, if there was some facade; if there was a curtain they had to pull back in order to see the other side of this place . . . then maybe it didn't have to be so much of a prison after all. Maybe she wouldn't have to suffocate.

Maybe . . .

Rowen was good at finding things, but that didn't mean she wanted to find everything. Some things weren't so intriguing that she wanted to use them to relieve her boredom anymore. Some things were too unsteady . . too far of a fall that would get her stuck in an entirely different cage. She had learned this the hard way, watched as it happened to someone else, and she didn't want all of that.

But still . . . too unsteady or not, there was the question of Hawkins left to answer. She was curious. Was this really a good-for-nothing town, or was there something else waiting to greet them? She wasn't sure, was throwing the idea of poking her nose in back and forth.

Despite the temptation of it, despite the curiosity, she felt oddly uneasy sneaking through a place she didn't know headfirst. And, admittedly, if there was anything lying under Hawkins's gray, ghostly mask, it wasn't going to give her what she really wanted. All she wanted was home; to dive into the waves and have the assurance of a new life on the horizon. All she wanted was San Diego's morning sun on her face.

All she wanted was for Billy to stop playing his damn music so loud.

"Max, come help me with these boxes!" she yelled.

Their new house swelled with noise . . but no one answered her.

"Max?" she tried again.

Rowen received the blare of MotlΓ«y Crue in response, a sound that blasted across the hall and rattled the walls. She set the boxes down, trailed over to where it came from, and poked her head through the doorway.

"Where's Max?"

Billy cut a glance at her and shrugged as if he was uninterested, would rather be doing anything but stuffing boxes in a cramped closet instead of unpacking them. "Hell if I know . ."

Rowen rolled her eyes and groaned. "I swear to God . ." she released her grip on the doorway and headed into her shared room.

"Don't get so worked up . ." she heard her brother say, "She's probably moping somewhere with that dingy skateboard."

Rowen threw a glare at the empty threshold before beginning her search for her black converse, looking under the bed, through multiple boxes and piles. "We're supposed to be keeping an eye on her!"

"She's thirteen years old!" Billy called over the increasingly loud music, "She can watch herself!"

The well-loved shoes were found. Rowen sat down on the edge of her bed, slipping them on, tying the laces.

"Yeah, just turned thirteen, dumbass. Her birthday was a week ago, it doesn't count for anything . . "

"So what? Thirteen is thirteen. If she gets lost, then that's her fault! "

Another groan escaped her lips again as she walked down the slim hall, into the kitchen. She raced out the back door and down the steps; they creaked as she descended them and, for a moment, Rowen wondered how they managed to hold under her weight β€” what with the way they practically screamed old and in need of repair.

None of the houses on their lane were in particularly good condition, shiny and new with intricate floorplans β€” nor was Cherry Road a particularly complicated street. It was straight and narrow and she found it hard to believe that there was any way two cars could drive side by side on it. Their neighbor told them upon first meeting that it was where most of Hawkins's minor accidents happened; dings and rear-ended run-ins. The small stuff that people overreacted to. He shrugged it off and told them it was nothing to worry about, that the chief of police and his gruffness were more concern than the accidents themselves.

But Hawkins wasn't San Diego. The town never housed a Camaro until Billy's rolled over the other straight and narrow road behind their house. He was given a look that said 'don't even try it' when the man who brought them a housewarming gift left.

Rowen couldn't remember his name for the life of her, but she smiled when he would wave hello in the morning, sitting on his porch with a cigar.

He liked Max despite her scowls as most older people did in their one-lane neighborhood β€” if you could even call it a neighborhood. There weren't a lot of kids on Cherry Road β€” or, at the very least, close enough for her to notice. Their street was filled with couples whose children were grown and gone, filled with older people; veterans like the man who waved every morning.

She felt pulled to stalk up his porch and ask if he saw her stepsister skate by . . . but when she passed the third house, a familiar head of red caught her peripheral. Max was riding towards her as if she had gone further and decided to come back . . if the expression on the redhead's face was any indication.

Max took one quick look at her and flinched as if she had been caught.

"Where you been, speedster?"

Though she replied as if she had not: "Testing out the road . ." Max said, shrugging. "It's pretty bumpy at our house, but when you get closer to the power lines it's smoother. Makes for good practice . ."

She rolled on her board until she reached Rowen, halted at the curb. The board was kicked up with her foot.

Rowen rarely raised an accusing finger at her step-sister, but her brow raised and she gave Max the same look given when her old piggybank had mysteriously gone empty two years ago: unconvinced.

"You sure you weren't testing out how far you could go without anyone noticing you were gone?"

Max looked down at her scuffed vans in an attempt to avoid the subtle scorn, eventually began to trudge in the direction of their house.

Rowen slung an arm around her shoulders. "You know, I would've done the same if I could skate for that long . ."

Max scrunched her nose at the dirt. "You can't skate at all . ."

"Well, then I would walk . ."

Rowen's excuse made her laugh a little. " . . I wasn't planning on running away or anything, you know . ." Max tried after a moment, smile gone, "I just wanted to do something that wasn't unpacking."

They reached the back steps and Rowen took her arm off her stepsister's narrow shoulders, nodded. "I know the feeling."

The back door creaked and shoes rattled the waring porch, made dried paint fall.

"She lives . . "

The lack of enthusiasm might as well have been an announcement.

Billy stalked out in clunky boots and a long-sleeve tee β€” the latter was a rarity, but Hawkins was cold and they just arrived two weeks ago. The biggest difference between their old house and their new house was a stark contrast in weather; everything else followed suit.

"The hell are you doing out here? You're supposed to be helping us with all this shit."

"What do you care?" Max snapped at him. She was just as bored as he was.

"I care when I'm the only one unpacking," he snapped in return, ". . and watch the attitude dip-shit, or you'll be moving garbage."

The door slammed shut before Max could mouth another retort. Rowen rolled her eyes, moved to follow . . . though something made her stop. She couldn't help the idea that suddenly popped into her mind.

She turned to her stepsister. "You got any quarters sitting around?"

Max threw her a suspicious look . "Why?"

"Go get them, " Rowen ordered, walking around the redhead towards the open garage. "I saw an arcade when we drove into town. We're going."

Max had all but prepared to say 'yes mom', but when Rowen mentioned the word 'arcade', her expression brightened and she forgot her retort. "Wait β€” really?"

"Would you rather spend the rest of the day listening to MotlΓ«y Crue and unpacking stuff you don't want to unpack?"

"No way, " Max blurted.

She rushed towards the stairs and rattled the wood as Billy did, slammed the door with less force. Rowen waited, grabbing at the handles of a sunny-yellow bike she hadn't ridden since she was fourteen. Taking Billy's keys was the initial thought . . though with the knowledge that it was already three-thirty in the afternoon and six o'clock was the non-negotiable time for dinner, she decided against it.

Susan wanted to go to Sears but the closest one to them was the next town over. They had been gone all afternoon . . . but Rowen knew better than anyone that schedules β€” being on time β€” was something their dad took seriously. Even if she and Max weren't late coming back from the arcade, it was better they came back on their bike and board instead of Billy's Camaro when he had been home the whole time . . . it was safer.

In the same way going to play arcade games for a few hours was better than unpacking boxes. Somehow that made the whole thing seem like less of a punishment.

. . .

〝 𝑖𝑖.

. . .

Walking into the arcade was vastly different from the blurry image she had captured for mere moments while driving down the road. She was prepared for the neon colors, the smell of pre-packaged food, and the sweat. She was not, however, prepared for the sensory overload.

It was vastly crowded, for one. Vastly loud, for another. She was sure the swell of screeching preteen voices and background music could easily compete with the blare of Billy's stereo. It was slightly mind-numbing . . but what else was she to expect? Certainly not a calm, cozy corner. She would have had to take a walk in the woods in order to find some semblance of peace and quiet . . . but the woods in Hawkins were not exactly calm and cozy, and did not seem like a good place to go to for peace; or, at least, as far as she could tell from the edge of them. Everyone seemed to avoid the woods except for the occasional farmer she would catch wandering near the brush from her back porch.

It didn't seem out of the ordinary when they first arrived, moving trucks in tow. A walk in the woods wasn't a popular pastime in most places, nor was it something she figured the kids in Hawkins would do β€” no kid would pick trees over videogames, especially when the trees looked like bony fingers. Rowen, however, was not a fan of buttons and mechanical music, and the things that were left for her to do were slim. She found herself stuck in the house a lot, and because Cherry Road bumped shoulders with the tree lines, the longer they were there, the more curious she got.

Rowen seldom shied away from things that swayed and groaned. Her mom had once been a master at revealing the true nature of things and making them seem less frightening. Shadows were the outlines of things light cast itself upon, not misshapen creatures waiting to take her away. Scrapes against her window were tree branches. Little animals like squirrels and raccoons were the ones who snapped twigs in the night and rustled from one place to another. Forests were things to be appreciated and cared for, not frightened of, even if California was covered with more sand and palms than leaves and pine trees.

She found herself admiring Hawkins's once when she recalled those talks, no longer seeing bony fingers but bare branches losing their leaves a little earlier than she thought they were supposed to. They were a woven pattern, a cluster of arms embracing each other.

She felt pulled to go closer sometimes, to search for inspiration. She could have used a little with the way her notebooks sat in her room, forlorn and abandoned . . . and yet. She would at least have to go near the woods to get what she wanted. But she couldn't help the shiver that threatened to crawl over her. As normal as they appeared, Hawkins's forests were not the kind she felt fine getting lost in for the sake of filling up another page.

She wasn't exactly terrified . . . but the practical part of her reasoned that she wasn't an idiot either. "Two kids disappeared in them woods not even a year ago," their friendly old neighbor had said once. He never elaborated on it, but Rowen wasn't curious enough to try and pry the details out of him. The cautious part of her was uneasy, and the irrational part of her was afraid she might find one of the bodies if she ventured far enough between the trees. Rowen had seen her share of fake blood, horror movies, and had been jump-scared by her friends enough to have grown used to frights . . . but a real dead body? She felt it best to keep that one to the imagination.

Besides, she wasn't about to leave Max alone; not when she knew the redhead was still considering skating all the way back to the beach. Putting up with temperamental kids bumping into you every minute was bearable β€” achingly tolerable at best, but better than anything else she could come up with. Max was happy β€” occupied in the least β€” and she had enough room to breathe when kids weren't fighting for a spot in front of one of the machines.

Max dragged Rowen from game to game, explaining what she felt like explaining, but otherwise keeping quiet and engrossing herself in whatever was occurring on the screen, aggressively smashing buttons and pulling at tiny levers. They spent the better half of the hour glued to one covered in characters who Rowen couldn't quite figure out, the words "Dig Dug" stuck plainly to the top. She wanted to ask how long it would go on, sure her stepsister's hands would freeze in their positions had she kept playing long enough . . . but Rowen knew from an incident the year before that interrupting Max while she was focused on was idiotic. Borderline frightening.

In truth, she was just glad the bumping and being run into had stopped for a while . . but when it got close to five-thirty, Rowen had to take a leap and attempted to pry her hands off the machine. Max was lenient, thankfully; much happier, in fact, and had finished by the time Rowen was bold enough to say something.

"How the hell do you get seven-hundred-thousand points on a video game?" she asked, dumbfounded enough by the overwhelming amount of lights and colors she had stood between for an hour and a half. "How the hell do you get that on anything?"

"Seven-hundred and fifty-three," Max corrected her as they left the stuffy building for cool air and the smell of exhaust.

Rowen placed a hand on her chest. "Oh, excuse me, seven-fifty-three."

She earned an eye roll.

"I've never seen you play like that," Rowen continued, trying to pry a smile out of her. "I've never seen you play at all, actually."

Max shrugged. "It's not a big deal."

"Getting the top spot isn't a big deal? What'd you call getting an A-plus in Math, then, a mild achievement?"

The red-head rolled her eyes again. "No β€” Rowen, I mean it's not a big deal that you haven't seen me play," she said, the little frustration in her expression changing to hesitancy. She stared at the asphalt. "I haven't since the last time I saw my dad. It was kinda a thing I did with him. He drove me, I mean . . . "

Rowen said nothing, but nodded to herself, stuffing her hands in her coat pockets.

"Well, maybe it can be our thing now," she tried after a while. "If you don't mind me hanging out, anyway."

Max shook her head. "No, I don't mind." Rowen thought she was hiding a smile behind her hair.

The older stepsibling hummed, twirling her house key once before sticking it in her coat pocket. Her sunny-yellow bike stood out like a sore thumb, especially so now that it was getting dark. The dull reds and browns of other bikes started to blend in with the road. She had been worried for a moment that the lack of a lock around her own would invite someone to take it . . . but the fact that it was so painfully yellow made her think that people had similar opinions of it to hers.

"You know the way back, right?" Max asked, skateboard in hand.

Rowen tossed her hair behind her shoulders, nodded. "Sure. Totally . . How hard can it be?"

"How hard can it be?" the redhead echoed.

"Yeah, you know. One-road town, simple streets. Easy to remember . ." she paused, throwing a slightly nervous look at her stepsister. "As long as we don't go into the woods. I wouldn't be able to see, never mind tell left from right." Rowen talked nonchalantly, but the truth was she had desperately hoped she could rely on landmarks to show them the way back. She was terrible with directions . . . but she wasn't too bad at changing the subject. "So, getting the top score on that Dig Dug game, was it brutal? You looked like you were fighting for your life for a second."

Max smiled. "No, that's just how I play. The top score was lower than I thought so beating it was easy."

Rowen smirked, peddling slowly so Max could catch up on her skateboard. "Who was the poor guy you left for dead, then?"

The redhead shrugged as they rolled down the street. "Dunno. Someone named Dustin."

. . .

ADMIN NOTE :

just a reminder ! that the timeline in this story is extended a week further than the original timeline in season 2 . . everything that happens in canon still does here , i have just taken the liberty of adding a few days in between for the sake of rowen's plot.

. . .