Rowen had spent the better part of the next morning trying to write down whatever she could remember of her old notebooks, tried to salvage some of the ripped pieces that hadn't gotten tarnished, tried to read them. She failed, for the most part. She frustrated herself even more, left herself frazzled.

She was unbelievably angry with herself for ripping up her journals. For ruining the one thing that she could always keep close to her, for letting herself act on that kind of feeling. It was ridiculous. She was ridiculous . . . though the self-loathing was probably the most ridiculous. She somehow found herself often angry about being angry, throwing herself in a loop.

It made her shiver . . It reminded her of her dad, of how Billy had been beginning to do the same for weeks now.

She didn't want to do it. She didn't want to be like them, remind herself of them . . . but the thing was, it was a little harder not to when the thing that made her angry was valid. Very valid. She had every right to beat herself up for it. She just didn't want to continue on and on, spending days, weeks, an eternity in self-loathing.

Rowen stopped writing then, when she started to feel stuck in that emotional loop. If she kept trying, her loathing would only continue, and then she would really be trapped. She needed to get away from it. Free her mind from the thoughts and distract herself by doing something else.

She had been momentarily relieved from those thoughts when she pulled into the semi-parking lot of Benny's diner, the food and the weight of Steve's emotional torment pushing it out of her mind at the time . . . but, when they said their goodbyes, and Rowen left them, she couldn't think about anything else that day. From a cold November afternoon to an even chiller evening. Somewhere in between, she was sure she had seen Samantha wave in her direction in the high school parking lot, though could not remember if she had truly seen it or just imagined something that wasn't so depressing as knowing that her stories were decomposing between old food and miscellaneous garbage.

She wasn't sure what else to do anymore but float around Hawkins in hopes that an oddball store would be looking to hire when the rest weren't. To stare at the woods from her back porch and watch the branches bend like the bony fingers she knew them to be, then change into arms that embraced each other, into something admirable, then back to something that creaked and groaned, oozed a sense of foreboding.

She felt something of inspiration. She didn't feel enough to scribble on a blank page and begin another long journey.

But, as these things did, she reminded herself that the uncertainty of what to do never lasted long when you had Max Mayfield as a stepsister. Max made a habit of interrupting Rowen's reoccurring crisis by giving her something to do — whether literally moving about and getting something done, or spending all her mental energy — and she had yet to fail. This time was no different, when she came into their room on Saturday with a look Rowen, for once, was unable to read.

"You want something to do?" were the redhead's exact words, as if she had read them from a script. Her half-smirk, half-confused expression was no less puzzling.

Rowen had gone into it hesitant. "Depends . . What?"

"This kid in my class says he met you yesterday. He said you should know his name?"

"What's his name?"

"Dustin."

"Dustin?"

"You don't know him?" Max had said it almost triumphantly, as if she was expecting Dustin to lie.

Rowen shook her head. "No, I do, actually. I met him at the library."

"The library?" Now Max was the one to look puzzled.

Rowen huffed. "Yeah. He kinda stole some books from the place."

"What?" That hadn't helped with Max's confusion.

"Don't worry about it," her stepsister waved off. "Did he want to ask me something?"

"I think . ." Max thought aloud. "I think he wanted me to ask for him. He looked nervous."

Rowen squinted, but said nothing.

"Anyway, he wanted to know if you could tutor him. In English, you know?"

"Tutor? Are you serious?"

"Yeah, you're good," Max huffed as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, Rowen being good at English. "Like really good, Ro."

Rowen pushed herself up off the bed. "And how did he come to know that I'm 'really good', hm?"

Her stepsister began to look bashful. "Oh, uh . . no reason. I mean, I may 've mentioned that you like to write when we were trick-or-treating. You might actually be able to help him."

"Might?"

Max refrained from rolling her eyes, though just barely. "Okay, more than might. Definitely."

"Is his grade that bad?"

"I guess."

That was how she had ended up with an address scribbled on a torn piece of her notebook paper, a map too big to handle — never mind see in the dark — and eventually roll up to a house that was, to her, too big for words that very afternoon.

. . .

〝 𝑖𝑖.

the next day:

A part of Rowen, admittedly, was relieved that Max had told Dustin that she like to write, that she was decent enough at English to be able to help him in some way. His handwriting was just above what she had no doubt a teacher would call chicken-scratch, and he often used big words in the wrong places, over-complicating what he was trying to say on the page. She didn't doubt Dustin's intellect. The more she talked to him, the more she realized that he was a smart kid. Very smart. The problem wasn't there, it was just in his words. How he communicated things was what got him in trouble. His eloquence, it just needed a little fine-tuning, she thought. If she could help him fix that, then his grade would improve massively.

His mother was more than thankful that Rowen had even shown up, never mind had the capabilities that she "unfortunately" lacked. It was kind of aggressive, actually, Mrs. Henderson's appreciation and Rowen didn't know how to handle it at first. The older woman came to the door with many thanks and questions about how she was, then shoved a cookie in her hand and said that she would be happy to make Rowen anything else if she was still hungry later.

Dustin whined about it, embarrased.

Mrs. Henderson told him to hush, smile gone one moment, then there the next once she turned back to Rowen.

Again, Rowen did not know how to handle it; but she was, at least, mildly entertained by it. She'd never seen a mother and son interact like that before . . . not, except for one time many years ago — and, she was sure, many other times she could no longer remember — when Billy had whined to their mom about making a scene in front of a girl named Abby.

Their mom had called it motherly affection. Billy called it a bruise to his ego . . . if eight-year-olds could even have egos. It didn't matter. He hated when she would tease him or talk about things that were embarrassing; even then, when she was the one person he clung to. He hated when anyone would tease him or poke at the things that were touchy, and had begged her to stop, even though it had only lasted for a short while. Rowen had teased him more for the interaction with Abby, actually, but she liked to think then that it was her sisterly duty. It was easier for him to ignore her, too.

Dustin, however, could not ignore his mother, nor go against her when she didn't want him to. She was a very kind woman, but Rowen reminded herself that kind women had tough sides too. Unmovable, angry sides. It wasn't as black and white as some people thought.

And neither was Dustin's English homework.

She sighed a little more over it than she figured she should have. Dustin wore a frown on his face after the first ten minutes.

"Okay, so I think I know why you're failing English . ."

Rowen had to refrain from looking at the pile of graded papers in horror. "Your teacher made it clear, your grammar is all over the place."

Dustin let out a sigh of his own. "Yeah, it's shit. I know."

"But your writing never seems to fit together either. Like you'll start talking about one thing and then go to another topic . ." she circled a few places in the paragraphs. ". . — and, don't get me wrong, it kind of relates to what you were writing before, but . . . when you read it, it doesn't make sense."

Dustin flung his hands up in exasperation. "Great. First my grammar's shit and now I can't make sense either."

"Dustin, you make sense," Rowen told him. "When you told me what your assignments were about, you did great. You just aren't as good at writing your thoughts down . ." she paused, giving him a sympathetic look. "Listen, everyone needs practice. You just need to work a little harder."

He leaned his head in his hand. "Okay, so . . how do I do that?"

"Again, practice. I'll help you out, don't worry. That's what you're mom's paying me for right?"

Dustin let his gaze slide down to the table. He smiled, letting out a nervous laugh. "Yeah . . Right. Totally. It's not like I asked you to tutor me because I wanted to hang out with you or something."

Rowen's eyes narrowed. She saw his cheeks flush the tiniest bit red.

"Well if you did, that'd be okay too." She handed him back the stack of English assignments. He set on the opposite end of the table.

Dustin then reached for his bookbag, pulling out a black journal. He held it up sheepishly. "I uh, got one like yours . ." he smiled. "Max said you had a ton of these."

Rowen tried to hide the pang she felt behind a smile, said, "I have quite a few, yeah." She used to, anyway.

"I thought it could be something that I could use for practice. Like I could make notes and stuff from what you tell me and come back to it when I need it."

"That's smart of you."

He grinned. "Thanks," he said, opening the notebook. "So, um . . basically, I got my English teacher to give me a chance to make up one of my assignments. It was a short story we had to do for the creative writing part of the class. I bombed it, but she's letting me rewrite it."

He showed her the first few pages in his journal. They were somewhat filled in, mostly with short paragraphs and side notes. "I was hoping you'd help me with the whole thing, but what I really need help with is something I haven't written down yet."

"And what would that something be?"

Dustin sat back in his seat, folding his hands over each other, then flat on the table. "Basically, it's a supernatural story, you know? Ghosts, monsters, the cool stuff."

Rowen nodded, ushering him to continue.

"So the main character, he finds this . . creature, as he's coming home. It's really small, it makes weird noises. He has no idea what it is. At first, I thought he'd take it to the police or something 'cause you know . . it's weird. It appeared out of nowhere and he doesn't know what it can do."

"But?"

"But it isn't dangerous . . — or at least he doesn't think it is. So, he doesn't think taking it to the police is a good idea because if it is just a harmless little creature, he's afraid they might hurt it."

"Okay . . That makes sense," Rowen said. "It sounds like a pretty solid idea, though, so what is it that you need my help with?"

Dustin hesitated, thought for a moment. "The thing is . . he's curious. He wants to figure out what it is but he can only figure out so much by himself. And I think he really wants to show it to someone. But I don't know if he should and if he does, I don't know who he should show it to. What would make the most sense?"

Rowen stared at the table. "Well, it's your decision obviously . . but if he does decide to show it to someone, does he have any friends that he could show it to? People he trusts?"

Dustin sat in thought once more.

"I think so," he began, fiddling with his hands. "He has friends . . — close friends, but he's not sure if they'll believe him."

"Well, if they're close friends like you say they are, then wouldn't they? If he's honest, then they should be open to hearing whatever he has to say."

Dustin nodded, his gaze fixated on the scribble-filled notebook. "Okay . . yeah." He grabbed for the pencil to his left, jotting something down. His gaze turned back to her. "So he's just gotta convince them that he's really serious and when he shows them, they'll believe him and it'll all be cool?"

Rowen opened her mouth. "Uh . . well, when he shows them, they'll believe that he founda weird creature, yeah, but you're missing something. You said it yourself, he has no idea what the thing is. People won't just believe that something they've never seen before is harmless. He has to have information to back that up so no one will try to hurt it in the way he's scared they will . ." she paused, pointed a finger at him. "Assuming this thing can be killed. Or can it?"

Dustin shrugged. "I don't know yet. I'm still figuring that part out. And whether or not it's dangerous."

"Okay," she said. "Well, until you figure that out, we can start with your grammar." Rowen gave him a knowing look, one which made a bashful smile appear on his face.

She looked over her shoulder. "Before that though, where's your bathroom?"

Dustin pointed behind her. "It's at the end of the hall. The last door on the right."

She stood, left him to mull over his work.

Rowen knew that Dustin's chicken scratch and bad grammar were not the sole reason for her being there. He wasn't lying when he said he needed help. His old English assignments were evidence enough that he was desperate for a helping hand, but if he had asked Max to ask her if she would tutor him partially to hang out with her, she wouldn't be surprised. She did catch a group of miniature Ghostbusters staring at her a few days ago, after all.

Nevertheless, helping Dustin out was one thing she had a feeling she would enjoy while in Hawkins.

Rowen used the few seconds it took to reach the bathroom to take in the house, particularly the hall she trailed through. There were precisely four different doors that went down the length, the bathroom being at the very end as Dustin had said, across from another . . . Though she hadn't taken into account the possibility that as she walked further down, she would begin to feel colder. Air was spewing from one of the rooms and turning the hall into an icebox, making her vaguely tempted to look for a blanket to wrap around her sweater.

Was it supposed to be like that? . . Did they have an air conditioning problem?

Suddenly, something shrieked.

"Jesus . ." Rowen hissed.

She spun to face a door opposite her, drew in a heavy breath. Whatever had made the noise sounded small; it wasn't very loud, the shriek . . but it had been shrill and ear-splitting in the way nails on a chalkboard sounded, and it broke the silence that was so definite in the small space. Rowen began to realize that that silence that had enraptured the hall, dense and heavy, felt a little familiar. She didn't like it . . . why was that feeling coming here? In Dustin's home, a place that was overly colorful and housed two very lively, happy people?

Rowen looked back to where she had come from, down the hall. She could just barely spot the back of Dustin's head. He was oblivious, sitting at the coffee table with his face stuffed between old homework assignments. As far as she could see, he was the only one in there, and the dining room behind him was empty. Rowen recalled how he told her that they owned a cat. She had yet to meet the tabby Mrs. Henderson affectionately called Mews . . and while she had quickly concluded in a desperate way that the pet was the one behind the noise . . . she could not help but reject her initial answer, because that it was very unlikely a shriek like that came from that cat. If it did, then Hawkins had some weird felines.

The sound came again, shorter and gurgling.

Definitely didn't imagine that, she thought.

It came again.

Definitely not a cat.

What were they keeping in there?

Warily, Rowen took a step towards the door. The noise came a fourth time. She took another step . . . a purr followed. Her head jerked towards a cracked closet door where, to her relief, a coat of tan and white began to squeeze through. Mews twitched her tail, stared Rowen down in typical feline fashion, then trotted off.

Now she was properly confused . . Her thought was confirmed, she was left without any possibilities.

Dustin never said anything about having any other pets . . So what was in there?

"Rowen?"

She jumped.

Dustin stood at the end of the hall, a little concerned by her expression. "What are you doing?"

"Sorry, I — . . " she trailed off, looking back and forth between him and the door. "I just . ." her finger pointed towards the door, ". . I heard something shriek in there. I know you said you had a cat but I just saw her go into the living room."

Dustin's eyes widened just a bit. "O — oh! Yeah . . yeah, I have another pet. It's a . . it's a lizard."

"A lizard?"

"Yeah," he laughed. "He's a talkative little guy. He hates it when I leave him alone. Never shuts up."

Rowen threw a blank look at the thirteen-year-old.

"Should we get back?" Dustin suggesred, pointing his thumb behind him.

"Uh . . yeah. Yeah, I, uh . . I still haven't gone to the bathroom yet. Just give me a second?"

He nodded, giving her a smile before trailing back to the living room.

Rowen watched as he left, trailed her gaze back to the door once he was gone. A lizard, huh, she thought.

She never heard the sound again. Not as she went into the bathroom or came out, not as she slowly walked down the hall, waiting to hear it again. She knew what it was that had felt familiar . . That dead silence began to crawl into Dustin's house as it had at the diner. It was silent — uncomfortably silent, in the way the woods were when they looked like bony fingers, oozed.

. . .