When Monday came, Rowen found her nerves suddenly resurfaced.

The night prior had been made more of the after-effects of staring her dad in the eye, poking the bear, emotions running on high, and situations that seemed to good to be true. Rowen didn't know how to feel then; even after Max was pushed over, and she was comfortably settled in her bed, she lied awake. She couldn't seem to convince herself that, yes, that did happen. She was going to go to the police station tomorrow — not because Billy had gotten himself another ticket . . but because she had a job. A real job. Something her dad couldn't ridicule and ruin for her. Something he had wanted her to go out and get, therefore couldn't say anything against. Against her.

For once, he would be eating his words. She had actually done it . . . though, once the sun rose and she found herself second-guessing her choice of clothes, Rowen realized that this was not going to be as easy as it was for Billy to survey a room and know all its details; all its secrets. She knew it was something of an exaggeration, his ability to do that . . but it wasn't an exaggeration to say that she was nervous. Very nervous . . . What if she messed up? What if she wasn't all Hopper thought she was cut out to be? . . . What if he fired her?

She felt ridiculous . . She felt her anxiety creep up for the first time in a long time.

Billy was in a sour mood that morning. Not even the sentimental turn their conversation took the night before could change it when he woke up.

She knew there was absolutely no way she was going to be able to take their dad's truck to the police station. He left before they did every morning, and he needed transportation to get back home . . not that that was necessarily a problem to her. What was a problem was the fact that he was already gone. She couldn't take the truck even if he didn't mind — and he did mind.

Rowen would have to keep her employment status a secret until further notice, she supposed.

She made sure to come to the station at eleven on the dot — after Hopper, as he told her to. She wasn't entirely sure what to call him . . Hopper, Chief, Chief Hopper. Definitely not Jim. That day could go from pleasant to terrible if she dared to open her mouth and say his first name. Adults had a weird, collective offense when it came to kids calling them by their first names. She wasn't sure if the chief was within that circle . . but she didn't feel like finding out, either.

Then again . . who knew. Maybe he didn't care. Maybe the clothes she picked were fine and maybe the lady he called Flo wasn't going to be the stern, terrifying woman she always imagined in her nightmares when she was little . . . Maybe she was thinking too much. Rowen couldn't shut her brain off no matter how hard she tried. She was in such a different situation, such a new place, that she didn't know what to do. Her mind was working overtime.

Rowen was rarely nervous around people . . but ever since she began to stretch herself thin trying to find someone to employ her, she found that this uncommon feeling etched its way into her, even with the knowledge that the guy who did employ her seemed to be a relatively nice person.

She parked in the same spot she had the night before, keys jiggling in her pocket as she stepped out of the Camaro.

Rowen grabbed for the cool metal of the front door as she approached the station, feeling instant relief for wearing a long sleeve shirt after a cool front hit her in the face. She unconsciously tugged at the left sleeve, hoping that it wouldn't slip up at any point during the day. By now, her bruise was pretty visible, therefore makeup was useless, so she was left to hope that her shirt would hide it.

"Hello."

The woman who she assumed was Flo greeted her. Rowen recalled talking to her briefly a few days ago, glaring daggers at her brother, forcing him inside. Rowen gathered her expression looked very different now.

She smiled back. "Hi."

The receptionist pointed a finger at her, realization etched between smile lines and wrinkles. "You must be Rowen."

Rowen's brow raised. "Uh . . yes. I am."

"Hopper told us all about you when he got in this morning," she explained. "I'm Florence, but you can call me Flo. Come on 'round."

She beckoned Rowen to come through the door to her right. "He insisted that he'd be fine showing you the ropes on his own but I know the second I leave he'll be pilled up with phone calls and places to go like he is right now. Besides, it's better you learn from the person you'll be helping in the first place."

"That's a relief," Rowen admitted, letting Flo take her bag and place it next to the chair behind her desk. "I didn't see his car, so I was wondering how he would show me the ropes when he isn't even here."

Flo chuckled. "That would be a sight even if he was here."

Rowen sat, fidgeting. She tried folding her hands in her lap but it only made her twitch more.

"You alright, sweetheart?"

She looked up at Flo's concerned gaze. "Oh, yeah. I'm fine," she told her. "I'm . . . I'm just curious as to why he offered me the job?"

Flo gave her a quizzical look.

"I mean I'm grateful for it, of course . ." Rowen added quickly. "I just didn't think that a police station would hire an eighteen-year-old."

The older woman cracked a smile. "Please, you've got nothing to worry about," she assured. "Hawkins is a small town and frankly, age doesn't matter with a job like this one. What people will notice is the fact that you're helping a poor old woman out."

"Really?"

"Believe me. Besides, I know the station will take anyone if it means I'm not here every waking moment."

"You're damn right," a voice piped up from the back. Rowen turned to see an officer reclined back in the seat at his desk, newspaper covering most of his face.

"That's Powell." Flo introduced, mouth in a tight line.

Rowen threw an amused smile his way before shaking her head. "I — I think I'm just nervous . ." she admitted with a heavy sigh, watching the older woman rearrange a stack of papers on her desk.

Flo smiled. "You'll do just fine, hun. Don't worry."

. . .

〝 𝑖𝑖.

For the first hour she spent in the station, Rowen observed what the older woman did, listening intently. They would occasionally switch, Flo letting her take a swing at the so-called ridiculous phone calls — which was something she decided was quite true. People complained about everything — while she wrote things down, then they would switch again, and Rowen would be writing things down.

By the time twelve o'clock rolled around, Rowen had taken over completely and Flo sat there in her lonesome with a content smile on her face. There was nothing too difficult that needed to be mastered. Hopper was being completely literal when he said all she would be doing was taking calls and writing reports down . . . And, as she expected, her nerves were the sole reason for making it seem like she had to climb a mountain to do what she would be doing; but even that eventually began to disappear, along with the rest of her doubts. Flo was a very reassuring person despite the initial tight-lipped expression given when people first walked into the police station. It made Rowen feel more comfortable . . She appreciated it. Even the quiet look of approval from the barren desk she sat at was supportive.

Aside from the lengthy calls from complaining residents and reports of which half were thrown out, Rowen let Powell know where he needed to go a grand total of once and she hadn't seen him since. In fact, other than Flo, she hadn't seen anyone else since she came in aside from a few nameless officers.

That is, until the front door swung open, revealing a pair of voices that went back and forth.

Rowen pinned one as Hopper straight away, but with a man barking complaints in her ear, she found it impossible to do anything else. She had already written down what his problem was, told him she would send help . . . but he was still complaining heavily about the problem.

"Mr. Neary, you've explained this to me already. I told you we'd send someone to speak with you."

This only pushed his rambling further.

"Hey, California."

Hopper's voice etched its way in between her ear and the phone, distracting amidst the rambles she was trying to listen to. She held up a finger, silently telling him to hold on. "Yes . . yes, I heard you," she told the voice on the other end. Rowen had to refrain from groaning. "Mr. Neary, you've told me this already."

And then she heard something that most definitely wouldn't be disclosed to Flo. "Excuse me?"

She looked up to Hopper, who, in return, looked confused. She took the phone away from her ear, letting it dangle in her hand so they both could hear Neary's voice wail away in complaints about his neighbor. Eventually, she leaned forward to speak into the phone again. "Listen, jackass, I said we'll have someone come by to speak with you and that's what's gonna happen. Don't bad mouth the messenger."

She wasn't sure if her words reached his ears, but either way, Rowen hanged up immediately. She looked over to Hopper, who was now searching through a desk drawer.

"Nothing more interesting than an owl attacking an elderly woman's hair, huh?"

He looked up from the map he was unfolding, shrugging. "You can never be completely accurate with those things 'round here . ."

She never agreed with anything more.

"So what'd ole Neary call to complain about?"

Rowen folded her forearms, looking down at the writing on the small notepad. "Well . . according to him, multiple farmers' crops have been poisoned by one of their neighbors. A guy called Merrill? . . Mr. Neary thinks the guy poisoned his last night."

Hopper's brows drew together. He pulled out a red pen, waving her over to the desk he was standing next to. "C'mere."

She did so.

"You've got better eyes than me." Hopper began to remove papers from the bulletin board. "Look for the name Danford Creek. Right above it is Neary's farm. Draw an X there."

She dragged her hand along the map, searching for the name until she came upon it, marking the spot above it.

"What's the news, Chief?"

She looked up to see another man walk in with Powell.

"Rowen, this is Callahan." Hopper introduced. "Callahan, Rowen Hargrove. She's gonna be helping Flo out from now on."

"Finally got someone to relieve us of the many hours of Flo, huh?" Callahan joked.

"Questions later," Hopper interjected. "I need to know all the farms that got hit."

Rowen smirked at his words, shifting to the left of the desk, leaning her hands against it.

"Well, there's Eugene's farm," Powell said, joining the group.

Hopper pointed to the map. "Draw an X there."

"And we found some more by Gilbert's farm."

Rowen drew an X on every location they listed. "Anywhere else?" she asked.

The two officers fell silent.

"That was it," Powell said.

"That was it or did you guys just get tired?" Hopper questioned.

"It was getting dark."

"It was getting really dark," Callahan insisted.

The chief rolled his eyes. "They're called flashlights you dip-shits."

The X's Rowen drew on the map distracted her from the following conversation. She looked over them repeatedly, confusion budding, wheels turning . . There was something sticking out to her about the way the locations aligned, something that was there but not close enough to see. It made her wonder . . .

"They look like they're going in circles . ."

The conversation stopped.

"What?"

She looked up to the three. "Uh, the locations, they look like they form circles."

Hopper came to the other side of the desk, looking at where she was pointing on the map.

"Like if it was 'connect the dots' or something . ." she thought aloud, gesturing between the locations, connecting them as she said. "I don't know if that means anything. I just noticed."

Hopper shook his head. "No . . no, I think you're onto something," he told her, looking intently at the map. He placed his finger on a white square in the center of the circles, stared . . then he took the map. Hopper stood from his position against the desk, folded the map in his hand and grabbed his hat from the coat rack.

"Chief, what you doin'?" Powell asked.

Rowen looked between the two. "Where's he going?"

"Chief!"

But Hopper was already out the door.

. . .