Mrs. Henderson came home with what Dustin called "an even worse look than she had when she left". She had spent hours looking for Mews around Lover's Lake with a friend, walking the entire area, searching in the forests, searching in the bushes with her flashlights and cat treats. The friend had sworn they spotted the cat there, but by the time it reached ten o'clock, Mrs. Henderson chose to give up . . . and she left in a state.

Rowen felt bad for lying about Mews after seeing just how much emotional turmoil she went through. She really did, and she could see Dustin felt worse. But, unlike Mrs. Byers, Claudia Henderson was blissfully unaware of what kidnapped Will a year ago . . . and now what ate her cat. Around ten minutes before the clock struck eleven, she collapsed into her favorite chair and tore through a handful of minutes with tears and mild hysteria.

Dustin tried soothing her. He tried keeping her from sending Rowen into a frenzy when she came up to her with a flurry of gratitude and apologies and so many words that could not be deciphered beyond emotional rambling.

Somehow he managed to coax his mother down the hall with a few choice words and disappear into her own bedroom. He went in with her, making sure she sat down on her bed rather than the floor.

It was sweet of him, Rowen thought. It was amusing of him; but then again, Mrs. Henderson had no one else but him. Dustin had no one else but her. It wasn't hard for Rowen to observe and listen within the Henderson household, wasn't hard for her to pick out the similarities it shared with her own that told her this kid, this sweet, innocent kid had experienced divorce too.

But there was one signifying difference between them, she reminded herself as a feeling of comradery started to bubble up: where she was stuck with her dad, Dustin was with his mom. Where he got along with his parent . . . well. She ignored the pang of jealousy she felt.

. . .

〝 𝑖𝑖.

. . .

The idea was to get his mom out of the house. The idea was to get Mrs. Henderson looking for Mews again in order to buy them a few hours. But how they would get her to do that? Well . . they weren't sure yet. For whatever reason, Hopper was not answering. Anywhere, from any of the places she could reach him, along with every other person they could trust. She had no choice but to stay at her own house and wait for Dustin to call.

Hopefully, Hopper would be at the station in the morning. They had to get Dart away from Dustin, away from his mom . . away from Max, that girl I almost ran into . . . hell, everyone.

She almost drove past her house with the mess of thoughts and worries she had swirling in her head.

Going up the back steps wasn't as much of a breeze as it was a few hours ago. Going through the door, turning off the abandoned television, and wandering into her room to see Max asleep on her bed yet again wasn't easy, somehow. It was tiring. She couldn't stop thinking about everything Dustin had told her, about Dart, about Will, his friends, Eleven . . . another universe. As if having a "Demogorgon" screech in her face didn't shell-shock her enough, now she had to wrap her head around alternate dimensions.

What the hell had she gotten herself into?

Wait . . no. What had Dustin gotten her into? She would have been just as clueless as his mom about the whole situation had he not been elsewhere when she showed up.

Rowen wasn't about to blame him for everything. It wasn't his fault, he had no idea she was coming . . but, as shocking as it was to find that Hawkins had something otherworldly and terrifying in its woods, she wished so badly that she could put that evening in reverse. That she could avoid the Henderson house and continue to be blissfully unaware of the other-dimensional creature lurking in the shadows.

She couldn't though. As much as she wanted to, she couldn't tear it up and throw it away as if it was another journal.

Her bag was tossed in the corner where her notebooks sat forlornly, ignored after she had done a poor job of trying to remedy her mistake . . . losing her old stories. Rowen pushed down the sting she felt when she saw the remainder of them, turned away and vigilantly kept herself from looking at them again. She changed into pajama pants and a t-shirt and headed for the fridge.

The tile was cold on her bare feet, but she was more focused on finding something to cease her stomach's growling than on keeping her toes from freezing; though, in hindsight, now that the cool air from the fridge was making her cold everywhere else, she was beginning to reassess her priorities.

Her priorities, however, were forgotten altogether when she heard a sharp click of a lock and realized that the back door was creaking open.

With the open bedroom door and an unusual amount of silence, she already knew her brother wasn't home. He was probably catching a ride to go somewhere with Tommy or Tina or whoever. She had breezed by his room moments ago, unaware of the tapes strewn about the floor and broken stereo in the corner, left abandoned. But when she peeked through the threshold to see the occupant of said room . . .

"Jesus, Billy," she whispered, going from one end of the counter to the other as he walked in. "What the hell happened?"

She gave him a once over, eyeing his hands and his face and the cut over his eye. He swatted her hand away before she could touch it.

"Nothing you haven't seen before," he grumbled. There was a bruise forming under his eye.

"Bullshit," she bickered. "Tell me."

She heard him give a dry chuckle as she disappeared back into the kitchen. As often as she had used it in the past, she knew he would never stop being annoyed by her tone. She didn't care, though. Rowen knelt under the sink, looking for the first aid kit she would occasionally bring out after one of Max's wipeouts on her skateboard.

"Why don't you ask Max?" he said after a moment. "Sure she'd be happy to tell you the whole story."

Rowen paused with the little kit in her head and peered over the counter just as Billy began to stalk down the hall. The doors were closed quietly, and she followed him.

She appeared at his door just as his denim jacket was being discarded. He pulled it off roughly but winced when the sleeves dragged over his hands. The skin on his knuckles was split open . . . They surprised her a lot less than she supposed they should have. Initial shock was all these things could really garner out of her anymore; once that faded, all she felt was a grim disappointment.

"What happened?" she tried.

Billy plopped on his bed while she leaned against the door frame, but he said nothing. So she moved, closed the door. "Billy . ."

He cut his eyes at her as he unlaced his boots.

"You said 'ask Max'. What happened?"

A minute of silence passed, tense, just like it always was in moments like this.

"It was after school," he finally muttered, tossing the clunky shoes to the side. "Susan and dad didn't leave in the morning like they said they would. They waited till we got back, to make sure we would come back."

Rowen would have gaped had this been at all surprising . . . She wished it could have been, but how could it when the certainty of their coming back wasn't so certain? Max had tried running away plenty of times, and Billy was no responsible figure when it came to that. Of course they would have waited.

She wondered if Susan had lied when she told her what she did or if her dad had just made her stay.

"Everything was fine," Billy continued. "Weirdly, but . . for once, this place was actually quiet, so I didn't pay any attention to it. I was waiting for Heather . ." he threw her a glare, "'cause someone took my car."

Rowen ignored the bitterness of his words with an eye roll, disappeared for a moment, and came back with a wet washcloth. Billy hadn't taken notice of any of it, only came back to reality when she shoved at his shoulder. She made him slide to the edge of the bed with a quiet but firm "Move".

"They got ready to leave after that but, before they could even get out the door, Max started arguing with them," he went on, letting her grab his wrist and wrap his knuckles in the washcloth as if it was nothing. It was a process they were used to; the routine of it, the sting of it. "Susan doesn't want her to go anywhere until they get back, but Max got pissed and started arguing with her . . . then dad got between them."

He clenched a fist, the other twitching as she replaced the washcloth with gauze. She couldn't do much else but wrap them so the cuts wouldn't open even further, so he wouldn't complain about blood getting on his clothes and haphazardly try and wrap them himself . . . He wasn't good at it.

"She starts going back and forth with him about not wanting to stay here all weekend, wanting to go to the arcade or some shit. I don't know," he grumbled. ". . I thought she would just give up and stomp off, but they kept getting louder and . . Jesus, that little shit. It's like she doesn't know when to stop. They kept going at each other until he just exploded. She bolted into your room before anything else could happen, but . . then he went to follow her . ."

They both knew how the rest of his story unfolded. Max was fine. Her ego was bruised, maybe, but she was fine; sitting crossed-legged and crossed-armed while Billy was . . . well.

Rowen couldn't help but dwell on thoughts of the arcade when he mentioned it, how she told Max that that could be something they could do together. She wondered if the redhead was hoping they would get to while their parents were gone . . . but hoping enough to argue like that?

Something between a grumble and a sigh escaped Billy's mouth. "She's even more of a pain in my ass than you, but there's no way I was gonna let him — . ."

He trailed off, though he didn't have to say the rest for her to know what it was going to be.

Rowen stood and went to his other side, pushed him in the other direction to fix his other hand. "Good to know you don't completely hate her," she said, mimicking what she had done with his right hand. The left wasn't as bad.

"Why would I hate her?" he muttered, but then scoffed, adding, "Wishing I could duck-tape her mouth shut, maybe but . . ."

She felt a little sarcasm rise up. "Gee, I don't know. Maybe it's the constant arguing?"

"That doesn't mean I hate her."

Rowen was the one to scoff this time. "Then what the hell is it, brotherly affection?"

He said nothing.

There was no gauze left by the time she finished, but between Max's wipeouts, his impulsiveness, and the tight budget they were subjected to, she hadn't any room to grumble over it. It had been enough to wrap and secure with paper tape . . . though she wasn't sure if it was enough to stay for very long.

"Mess with that and I'm messing with your shampoo," Rowen threatened him, pointing to the bandages.

"Seriously though, what's with you two? I get it, she can be a pain to you, but . . ."

"There's no but about it, Ro. She's just a pain."

Rowen blinked.

She could have laughed at how understated that was. "That's it? Are you kidding? . . You blamed her for moving away, Billy. That's not 'just being a pain'. You get in her face all the time like she can't do anything right —"

"'Cause she never listens," he interrupted.

"Maybe there's a reason she doesn't."

"Yeah, 'cause she's a brat."

"She's not a brat —"

"Yes, she is," he snapped. "If you'd stop petting her for one second, you would see that."

Rowen gawked at him for a moment before shaking her head, yanking the bag she had brought in from his bed. She had had every intention to stomp out, to slam her own door in a fit of frustration because once again, nothing seemed to sink in . . . but something else was poking at her.

She turned back towards Billy and bit out, "I may be petting her, sure, but at least we like each other, you know? We can actually have conversations without yelling in each other's faces. Unlike someone else we know."

Billy stared, clenched his bandaged fists, clenched his jaw.

After a long while, he muttered. "I'm not him."

"Yeah, I know . . . You're something else."

. . .

〝 𝑖. the next day

. . .

Against the pull she felt to stay near the phone at all times the next day, Rowen stopped by the station when the clock struck eleven. Billy drove her with a grunt and mumble of words she didn't even bother to decipher. She stepped out with an eye roll and a very pressed point towards him to not leave her there. Needless to say, they weren't exactly on speaking terms . . and, admittedly, their reasons were pathetic no matter what way she looked at it.

Both of them cared just a touch too much for their egos, and Rowen wasn't about to be the one to step down first and "hold out her hand and make amends", even if she thought the entire thing was stupid.

She strode into the station with one eye on her brother's pristinely clean car, giving Flo a wave against her sour mood.

"Hey Flo," she greeted.

"Hi sweetheart," the older woman smiled, looking up from her desk. "You hear to give me a hand today?"

Rowen shook her head with a smile, leaning her hands against the wood. "Sadly, no," she told her. "But I am here to see Hopper. Has he come in yet?"

Flo gave her her signature sigh, shaking her head. "Not yet," she said, glancing towards the radio behind her. "That man, I swear he's got his own personal timetable. If he wasn't the Chief, I'm tellin' you, he would've been fired a long time ago." Rowen couldn't help but smile at her ramblings, making Flo chuckle. But then the older woman turned her attention back to her, asking, "Why you ask? Somethin' the matter?"

"It's nothing the Chief can't help me out with," Rowen brushed off.

Flo peered at her over her round glasses. "Well, you know I can always help you out too if you need it, right?" She placed her warm hand over Rowen's colder one.

Rowen nodded. "I do. I just really need Hopper's help with this one."

Flo gave her a once over, but then nodded herself, saying, "Alright. I'll give you a ring when Hop comes in . . if he comes in."

Rowen nodded again. "Thanks, Flo."

Keeping herself from bolting out the front doors, she stepped out into the cold, skies cloudy and winds too strong for her liking. She slid into the Camaro, a familiar yet oddly quiet tune of Billy Idol humming from the speakers. Billy drummed his fingers against the wheel, glaring hard at whatever was in front of him.

"You gonna tell me why you made me drive you all the way here or what?"

"Nope," was all she said, seatbelt buckled.

The two of them mumbled and grumbled, one whipping the car out and onto the main road, another leaning her head in her hand, elbow against the window. They had never been this quiet around each other, not since the move, not since the hours of unpacking boxes that rendered them silent for a whole other reason. As she told herself earlier, she thought it stupid, what they put themselves in now . . but as her pride continued to climb, rising as high as his, Rowen never made a move to mention it. And, as expected, neither did Billy.

She slammed the door once they reached their house, standing in all its humble glory under the clouds that made it look duller than it already had been. Billy sped away, wheels screeching, echoing down the road as she stepped inside.

"Max, did anyone call the house while I was gone?" was the first thing that came out of her mouth.

"Dustin did!" she heard her call back.

She felt her heartbeat quicken, thoughts of the night prior suddenly shoved to the forefront of her mind. With her grumbles and glares towards Billy since she woke, Rowen almost forgot about everything that had come before.

"What did he call for? Did he leave a message?"

She received no response, only a thump from her room. A few grunts and sniffs followed. Rowen heard a RIP and gazed down the hall in confusion . . until Max stomped out, her board nearly cracked in two. She had a roll of ducktape around her wrist.

Rowen gaped at it. "What happened?"

"I busted," Max grumbled. She set the poor piece on the dining room table carefully, plopping the ducktape down with it. "I was skating down the main road and tried doing this flip I've been practicing since we moved but . ." she trailed off, then shook her head. "My board was ready to break anyway."

Placing a hand on her hip, Rowen asked, "I don't need to patch you up like Billy, do I?"

Max smirked. "No," she mumbled, cutting her eyes at her. Max began to run her fingers over the broken wood. "Not that I care, but . . is he okay?" she asked sheepishly. She had seen the bandages on his hands earlier that morning — fresh ones that Rowen forced him to keep on — and was informed of what she missed soon after. "I mean . . you know, as in he has no internal bleeding or anything."

"He's fine," Rowen said, trailing over to where Max stood, pouting at the sight of her broken board. "Just pissy and a little more bruised than usual."

The redhead stared down at the ducktape, watching as Rowen yanked it off, wrapping it around the middle of her board in an attempt to salvage the poor thing.

"It was my fault, you know . ." Max said quietly. "Why Neil was so mad."

The tape-ripping ceased.

"If Billy unloaded on me at some point, I wouldn't be surprised," she laughed, but it lacked humor.

Rowen kept silent for a while, occasionally glancing at the thirteen-year-old who avoided meeting her gaze. Max wasn't wrong. Billy was mad, and she was the reason he came home with busted knuckles — the result of repetitively punching whatever it was he wouldn't disclose to her — and a nasty cut above his eyebrow. But, if Rowen had guessed right, her promise was the reason Max argued so stubbornly . . which made it Rowen's fault.

It was what she wanted to tell her, but she knew Max would call bullshit the second the words came out of her mouth. She had done it before, which was why Rowen sighed and said, "I'm not gonna say it's not your fault . . but you shouldn't feel guilty for what he did. Billy made that choice to put himself between you two. Surprisingly, but . . still."

A long pause followed. More duck tape ripping resumed.

"You know who's really at fault, though. Right?" she asked, quietly, as if he might've been listening behind a corner the whole time, just waiting to jump. He wasn't . . but she still shuddered.

Max nodded, silently answering her.

"We have him to blame for a lot of things," Rowen added.

"For everything," Max corrected, quietly as she had . . as if Neil might appear out of nowhere, ready to lash out at their words.

. . .

〝 𝑖𝑖.

. . .

"Rowen! Where the hell are you?! I called like forty-something minutes ago!"

Swallowing, then coughing, she questioned, "You did?"

"Yes! Now get over here. My mom's gonna be gone all day, so we gotta figure out what to do with Dart."

After being hung up on before she could think, Rowen took a few moments to collect herself; throwing a piece of bread and peanut butter in the trash. She was no longer hungry, too caught up in wondering how the hell she was going to get to Dustin's house and how she had missed his first call . . . but then she thought of Max.

Rowen flew into their shared room, blurting out questions of whether she would be alright by herself that were a little too harsh and a little too frantic to fit their reason. Max still didn't know the truth of what Dustin was harboring, only that he had found some new species of slug . . or pollywog . . or whatever he'd called it. And Rowen's excuses, being last minute, weren't the best.

Max was too confused to question it, though, and insisted Rowen that she would be fine. Upon hearing these words, the latter bolted.

Billy was still gone, hanging out who-knows-where with who-cares-who and the car that she really wished had been at home, thus she had no choice but to peddle down windy streets beneath clouds that threatened to let the bottom drop. Her legs ached, and she hated that she had been so out of shape compared to him because, by the time she reached Dustin's street, she was breathless.

She stalked up his long driveway, rolling the bike alongside her until she came to the back of the house, and let it plop into the grass.

"Dustin?" she called, noting how the back door was left open. Rowen looked around the backyard, a mess of concrete, weirdly placed trees and a multitude of steps, a shed that looked as if it was about to collapse . .

BANG!

She jumped, looking over to a storm cellar.

"Finally!"

She jumped again, hand on her chest.

Dustin appeared at the threshold of the back door, arms held out at his sides. "What took you so long?"

Rowen couldn't help but gape at him. She took in the hockey padding on his legs, pieces that forced him to waddle down the steps. "What are you wearing?"

"Protection," he said plainly, looking behind her, then around her. "Where's your car?"

"I biked here," she told him, gesturing to her old, yellow Mongoose.

His brows drew together and he gave her a dubious look. "Why'd you do that?"

"Because I don't have a car," she stated.

"What about your brother's car?"

"He has it."

"Why does he have it?"

"Because it's Billy's car, Dustin," she pressed. Rowen took in a breath, and she eyed his gear again. "Why are you wearing all that, anyway?"

"Well, while you took a half hour to get here, I —" he said, pointing to himself, "— trapped Dart."

Her eyes widened. "I'm sorry, you did what?"

He smiled proudly. "Yup."

"Dustin!" she barked.

His smile deflated, and he gave her a defensive look. "What?!"

"He could've gotten loose! What the hell were you thinking?!"

Dustin gaped a little. "I — I . . ."

"Why didn't you call me earlier?" she demanded.

"I did call you!" he argued, finding his words again. "But you weren't picking up, and I wanted to trap him before he started wandering around my house."

"And you thought hockey padding was going to protect you against that thing? Seriously?" she chided, a grave expression on her face. "You could've gotten hurt! Or, I don't know, died?"

"You could've, too!" he threw back. "You could've gotten hurt, or died, or bled out on my carpet, and then what? I would be going to your funeral and I would've hated myself because I was the one who got you into this."

Rowen was at a loss.

After a moment, she said, "You know if I did somehow get hurt, it wouldn't have been your fault, Dustin. That would've been on me."

He looked down at the ground. "Yeah, well, I wouldn't have felt great about it."

Rowen deflated a little. Dustin wasn't an idiot, she knew that . . or at least she hoped. Seeing the change in his expression told her he had meant it. He went ahead and did everything himself on the off chance that she might get hurt and, admittedly, Rowen was touched. Startled by the fact that he did something incredibly stupid, but still . . touched.

"Listen, just . . no more monster-trapping without me, alright?"

That got a faint smile out of him. He nodded meekly. "Deal."

Rowen averted her gaze to the cellar. "So, what do we do now? Now that Dart's trapped in there."

Dustin stood in thought for a moment, then let out a heavy sigh. "I guess I should bury Mews's body somewhere. Can't leave her in my room."

Rowen threw him a sympathetic look, but then he grimaced with a very audible groan. "Ugh, I gotta clean my carpet, too 'cause there's blood all over the place. Could you help me get Mews out here?"

Her brow. "Uh, no. If I go near that, I'll throw up, and that'll be on you."

"Oh c'mon. It's just a cat body."

"Yeah, a cat body that got chewed up by your freaky lizard."

"Demogorgon, Rowen. Demogorgon."

They trailed back into the house, mumbling and grumbling on a much lighter note than she and Billy had been. Rowen had never had a funeral for a cat, but she planned to make sure Mews was properly buried and sent off to cat heaven . . or wherever cats went after they died. She hoped it was somewhere warm and comfortable because, despite his dry eyes and remarks, she could tell Dustin was still upset over the loss of his pet.

Dart wasted no time in making the poor feline his lunch and the sight was sickening . . . but she helped Dustin dig a hole. They buried Mews properly, and once a few moments of silence were given, his 'protection' was discarded and thrown into the shed. After they trudged back into the house, Dustin left her be to scrub blood off of his bedroom floor. He had tried a great deal of convincing, hoping Rowen would help him to make it a little more bearable; but she didn't budge and, like a proper babysitter, ordered him to go do it himself. Dustin grumbled and complained, stomping from his room to the kitchen multiple times with bright yellow gloves on his hands and just about every cleaning fluid he could find.

Rowen didn't sit and watch as he did so, though. For the next two and a half hours, she leaned against the wall, making telephone calls to everyone they could trust just as she had the night before. She called Flo a total of three times, resulting in no luck and no Hopper. The Sinclair's answered, but the conversation ended with Mrs. Sinclair telling her that Lucas had "gone to hang out with Dustin". Thankfully, the mother had no way of knowing that Rowen had, in fact, called from Dustin's house. Mrs. Byers didn't even answer her phone, and Rowen waited on the Wheeler's line for much longer than she would have liked.

Thinking back, she knew she probably should've gone to their houses instead of attempting to call yet again . . but the thought of leaving Dustin with Dart in his storm cellar felt wrong. Really wrong, even with the knowledge that he had trapped the creature all on his own.

Giving up on her phone calls for a moment, Rowen hung out on the couch until Dustin finished cleaning his room, putting every piece of furniture, clothing, and forgotten toys back into their respective places. The Wheeler House was tried for a third time as he walked back into the kitchen, arms full of cleaning supplies and disinfectant . . . but as it had the last two times, the line went busy.

"Okay, no more pointless calling," she decided, putting the phone back in its place. "We're biking to houses."

Dustin was aimlessly stuffing products back under his kitchen sink.

"Have any of your friends picked up?" she asked.

"They're not answering," he grumbled, shutting the small doors with a slam. "I don't know why everyone's quiet all of a sudden. Will's one thing, but Mike and Lucas are always there."

"Well, then c'mon. Let's go find them," she said, waving him along. Dustin began to scramble with the things he left on the floor in an attempt to put them back as quickly as possible.

Given that she had come up with the makings of a somewhat intricate story, going to the Sinclair House wasn't an option. His parents were under the impression that he was spending his time with the kid that currently trailed after her, thus Lucas would have to find out about everything later on. So, to the Wheeler House they peddled, down Elm and Maple until they came to the cul-de-sac at the end of the road.

Rowen had to admit, the assumption she had had of just what Nancy's home might have looked like was spot on. It was without a doubt one of the most pristinely kept houses she had ever seen, as was the front lawn and the hedges along the front, perfectly trimmed from the first to the last. She wondered if it was as perfect on the inside as it seemed to be on the outside. Her own house, albeit smaller, had a way of turning curious glances away just as much as her father did; solemn and curt on the outside, as polite as he could manage, and, somehow, so so much better at fooling people than her brother.

She doubted it.

She kept her distance from the pristine house, waiting in the driveway while Dustin scurried to the front door. A man, who she could only assume was Mr. Wheeler, answered. He looked down at Dustin with round glasses — much like Flo's — and a painfully bright blue sweater. Nothing about the expression on his face was warm, rather wrapped in a solemness and stoic disposition that made her wonder if he always looked that bored.

Their conversation was muffled, but she managed to catch a few words.

"Your line has been busy for over two hours, Mr. Wheeler. Do you realize this?" was the first thing she heard.

"Karen, where's our son?" Mr. Wheeler called back into the house.

More muffled words, then, "Karen, where's Nancy?"

Crossing her arms, she watched as Dustin walked away with a scowl on his face, and the man took a step out of his house.

"Hey — language!" was the last thing she heard Mr. Wheeler say as the thirteen-year-old stomped towards her. His warning seemed to be hollow, though; his feet never moved from the threshold, rather stepped backward and let the house swallow him back up. Somehow, Mr. Wheeler never saw her — which was strange, considering she stood directly in his line of sight. She was sure he had even looked her way, but he closed the door with a just as equal measure of boredom as he had when he opened it.

Rowen turned her attention back to Dustin. "No luck?" she asked.

"No," Dustin sighed.

She sighed herself. Despite the amount of anxiety their situation gave them, she wasn't in much of a hurry anymore. She felt drained, if anything, and dreaded having to pedal all the way back to Dustin's house. And then, eventually, back to her house. They were back at square one . . or two. Or whatever the hell they were at before they left the Henderson residence.

Dustin went to pick up his bike, pushing her to do the same . . but before she could even take a step, the growl of an engine made them pause. Dustin dropped his bike handle and Rowen turned her head. A deep burgundy car pulled up to the curb, steam blowing out of the muffler as it came to a stop. She hadn't realized she was shivering until it caught her eye, making her rub at the sleeves of her sweater.

Rowen thought she recognized it, but couldn't be sure; not until the tall lights shut off and someone emerged, shutting the door and rounding the front . . .

She squinted. What was Steve doing there? . . . and with a bouquet?

He was fixing his hair, mumbling to himself. Rowen stood there, at a loss, until she remembered that it was Nancy's house they were all standing in front of. The same Nancy who had supposedly called him bullshit.

Suddenly, Dustin was back in his hurried state. He wasted no time in reaching Steve before the latter could knock on the Wheeler's front door, inviting more monotone answers and unhelpful comments. "Steve! Are those for Mr. and Mrs. Wheeler?"

Steve jerked his head towards him, halting in the middle of the lawn. He looked down at the bunch of red flowers in his hand, looked back up to Dustin. "No?"

"Good."

The bouquet was ripped from his hands. Dustin made a b-line up the hill that was the Wheeler's lawn, his deep blue bike long forgotten.

"Hey! Wh —" Steve began to go after him, but as Rowen reluctantly approached with much less vigor than her company, he stalled.

"What are you doing with her?" he gaped, glancing between her and Dustin.

Rowen's brow raised. "Her?" she echoed.

All Steve gave her was a side glance, placing his hands on his hips. "You know what I mean."

Her eyes narrowed at the action. She had a weird feeling all of a sudden, and it wasn't for the lizard monster she knew was trying to break out of Dustin's cellar. Dustin's hand reached for the passenger door, waved her along once it was swung open, but she paid no mind to it.

Rowen crossed her arms. "I have a name, you know," she remarked, keeping her attention on Steve. "You've said it plenty of times."

"Yeah, and I didn't this time, so what?" he said tersely, still not looking at her fully.

She scoffed, let her jaw drop a little. "Where'd this come from?"

"Hey!" a third voice piped up, and they both turned to see Dustin waving his hands. "Earth to teenagers. Can we go?"

"If you tell me why you're with her, then sure," said Steve. "We can go wherever you want."

"She's helping," Dustin told him plainly.

His excuse did nothing to lessen Steve's confusion. "Helping? Helping with what?"

Amidst her newfound confusion towards him, Rowen recalled briefly that Steve was amongst the names Dustin listed that knew about the Upside Down and Dart . . or what Dart was, at least. Admittedly, she found it hard to believe . . though that wasn't exactly her utmost concern at the moment. What Rowen really wanted an answer to was why he was trying his best to avoid her gaze.

Nevertheless, she could tell Dustin was trying not to snap at him. She didn't blame him. They were in a rush, even if she no longer felt like hurrying. "We can't talk about it here, okay? I'll explain everything on the way."

"Or you could explain it now . ." Steve countered.

"No, we can't," Dustin threw back.

"Why not?" Steve insisted.

"Why are you arguing with him about this?" Rowen butt in. She could see his jaw clench just the slightest, and watched as he took a little longer than necessary to turn towards her.

He shrugged. "Why do you care?"

Rowen bit back her scoff. "Why do I care?" she echoed. "I don't have to tell you why I care. Why do you want to know so badly, anyway?"

Steve said nothing. He merely shook his head as if opening his mouth was pointless, and turned away from her again. It only made her feel annoyed.

"No, seriously," Rowen continued, taking a few steps forward. "What's with the moody attitude?"

"I'm not being moody."

"You're being something, and it's weird."

"Listen, Steve, can you just give us a ride to my house?" Dustin interrupted, clearly trying to get the other two in the car.

"Uh-uh," Rowen piped up, turning to him. "I'm not getting in a car with that in the driver's seat. I deal with that attitude enough already."

"Oh my —" Dustin threw the bouquet down. "This is not the time for your preferences, Rowen!"

"It's not a preference! He clearly doesn't want me in his car."

Saying the glare he threw at Steve was deadly might as well have been an understatement. Saying Steve didn't wince a little might as well have been a complete lie. He held his hands up defensively, mouth hung open.

"What is the big deal? I just wanna know why you guys are together —"

"Bullshit," Dustin bit. Rowen wasn't sure if he was starting to see the way Steve was acting too, but whether he did or not, she knew he was getting impatient. As if losing his cat wasn't enough, Dustin was stressed, in a hurry, anxious. He was juggling plenty without having to explain everything to Steve, and now he looked thoroughly fed up with the way neither of them wanted to move. "You're pissy and hormonal, and if you're not gonna give us a ride, then fine. Be unhelpful."

He threw the bouquet of roses into the passenger seat and shut the door with an extensive amount of force, beginning to stomp back to his bike. Rowen threw a glance at Steve and was a little surprised to see that his original rigid expression had softened already. He caved that easily?

"Okay, fine . ." he said after a moment, making Dustin slow down, stop. He turned around expectantly. Steve gave him a meek look, held his hands up in surrender. "Fine, I'll give you a ride . ." he paused, pointed a finger. "— but that's it."

Dustin stood still for a moment, considered Steve's words . . then shrugged. "Okay. That's fine . . I mean, we could use a little help with the Demogorgon in my cellar too, but if you don't want to, that's completely up to yo —"

"Dude!" Steve hissed, suddenly wide-eyed and panicked. He was chancing glances at Rowen as if Dustin had just revealed them to the world — which was not too far off. Quick footsteps carried him right up to the thirteen-year-old. "The hell are you doing mentioning that —"

"Steve —"

"You remember what we agreed to right? If we say so much as a word —"

"Steve!" Dustin didn't shout, though he said his name loud enough to bring a stop to the panicked rambling. "She knows."

"She knows what?"

Dustin sighed dramatically, frustrated. "She knows about what happened last year," he told him between gritted teeth, then lowered his voice. "What really happened."

Steve's expression suddenly became much more animated. His eyes widened to the size of saucers, his mouth stuck in an "o". "Wait, she — . . she knows? Like knows knows?"

"Yes."

"Wh —" Steve fumbled over his words. "How? Why?"

"As I said, I'll tell you on the way," he pressed. "Can we go now?"

Steve slowly began to nod, forgetting his mood and his stubbornness and his silent vigil to avoid looking Rowen in the eye. He fiddled with his keys and, once he had his door open, Dustin turned back to her with a pleading look.

"You're not gonna let him move until I get in, are you?" she asked, though she already knew what the answer would be.

"No."

Rowen groaned, stalking up to the car. "Fine . . but you owe me, Dusty."

Dustin gave her a horrified look. "No . . no no no. You don't get to call me that. Only my mom calls me that."

"You're making me get in a car with Stevie and his pissy mood here," she fired back, jabbing a finger in Steve's direction.

Steve rolled his eyes.

"I can call you Dusty all I want. Now get in the back."

She pushed at Dustin's shoulder, making him sulk and pull open the back door, sliding in reluctantly . . though not as reluctantly as Steve seemed to be.

The engine roared, the radio blared; they were off, and none of them were thrilled for a multitude of reasons. Nevertheless, rapid heartbeats and unexpected tension aside, there was something they had to take care of; something waiting for them.

. . .