Lucas is okay. The boys and I circled by his house before returning to the Wheelers', and saw definite signs of life through his bedroom window.

But Jonathan and Nancy aren't back.

It's getting dark.

But Lucas is okay.

We didn't manage to find Eleven…

Lucas is okay.

But Eleven is out there, on her own, and it is getting dark.

And someone went through literally every room in my house, making it look like a haggard survivor of a hurricane.

These are the thoughts that catapult around in my mind as I pace the floor in Nancy's bedroom, my path weaving between the door, and the window overlooking the lawn with an almost manic level of determination. I can't go downstairs because Mrs. Wheeler is down there, and I have no plausible explanation for why I'm here, and Nancy isn't. I can't climb out of the window and down into the yard to go off searching for her and Jonathan myself because I'll probably fall and break something important.

The only reason I was able to get into Nancy's room to start with was because Mike thought fast enough to distract his mother while I darted behind them and up the stairs, but now I am a sitting freaking duck.

I can't go after Nancy and Jonathan. I can't try to find Eleven. And I can't seem to shake the panic that claws at the inside of my chest, suddenly determined to make me believe I've lost them, too, and there is nothing I can do to change it…

Suddenly I want to talk to my dad. To tell him everything. To come clean, even if it means betraying the trust of Mike and his friends, because I am all but certain that I am in over my head. I don't have a clue what it is I'm doing. What it is that I am supposed to do.

And somehow I cannot shake the suspicion that if I keep going like this—if I keep trying to do this alone—someone else is going to end up dead.

I'm perching on the edge of Nancy's bed, fumbling with the phone on her bedside table before I can fully stop myself, my hands shaking as I dial the familiar number for the police station, and pray that for once—just this once—my dad has the time and patience to allow me to explain. I know it's going to sound insane. That I need to choose my words carefully, if I want him to even attempt to listen at all.

The phone rings in my ear, and I look up at Nancy's bedroom window, trying to seize on something—anything—to keep my panic at bay, but that's when I see them.

Nancy and Jonathan. Both of them looking traumatized.

Both of them, trying to scramble in through the window to avoid attracting any unwanted questions from Mrs. Wheeler down below.

"Hawkins Police Department, Flo speaking. How may I direct your call?"

Nancy is jimmying the window frame up so she can slip through into her room, and my mouth hangs open as I stare, dumbfounded, while Jonathan tumbles in after her.

"Hello? How may I direct your call?"

I drop the phone back into the cradle almost without fully realizing it, my gaze swiveling back and forth between Jonathan and Nancy, even as Jonathan turns to slide the window shut behind him. It almost feels as though we are all frozen in this moment, unable to move. Barely able to breathe.

I am just about to place the phone back on the bedside table, when it clatters out of my trembling hands and down to the floor, instead. And I am dimly aware of my brain sending the signal to the rest of my body, telling me to stoop over and pick it up. But then Nancy is stumbling forward, tripping into me as I stand from the bed not long after hearing her broken sob, her arms winding around me so tightly I am half convinced that I am the only thing keeping her upright.

"Jonathan, what—what the hell happened?"

He shakes his head at me, and I am about to open my mouth to protest, but Nancy's arms loosening their hold on my midsection distracts me, at least for the moment, her watery eyes meeting mine and pleading with me before I even stand a chance of looking away.

"Shower."

"Yeah. Yeah, okay, just—just give me a minute—"

Jonathan moves forward to take Nancy off my hands for a moment so that I can rummage around her room for her pajamas, a towel and washcloth, and her hair brush, the panic I had been trying to keep at bay resurfacing no matter how I try to avoid it. Whatever they found, I know it can't be anything good.

Nancy's practically catatonic state, and Jonathan's refusal to say a word right away only make that suspicion grow, but I clamp my lips shut as I take Nancy back from Jonathan's hold, and lead her haltingly out of her bedroom, and into the nearby bathroom instead.

I manage to get her seated on the toilet, and she livens up enough to start removing her clothes, and it is then that I notice the stains on her jacket. Her jeans. The exposed fabric of her shirt. It's dark in color. Nearly black, and for a moment my heart lurches over the idea that it may be blood.

A closer inspection proves that suspicion wrong, though, and in spite of how I am somewhat relieved, I still cannot fully shake my apprehension, my eyes slipping back up to meet Nancy's with the unspoken question of what the hell this substance is passing between us in seconds flat.

"I don't—Cami, I can't—"

"It's okay," I breathe out, turning to pull back the shower curtain and give Nancy a little privacy as she stands and shucks off her jeans, bra and panties, my attention focusing on twisting the knobs until the spray is suitably warm despite the occasional tremors still darting through my own frame, "Just—just promise me you'll tell me eventually?"

"Jonathan will."

"Nance—"

"No, I—I don't think I can relive that," Nancy explains, her broken expression causing me to blink back against the sudden sting of tears at the corners of my eyes, "But he can—I told him. So he can—he can—"

"Okay."

"Cami, I'm—"

"It's okay, Nance," I assure, stepping back from the shower, trying to ignore the way my voice cracks over the words, and keeping my gaze trained on Nancy's expression as she sidles past me and steps into the bathtub, herself, "Really. Just—just get cleaned up, okay?"

"You'll—you'll stay? You won't leave?"

"No. No, I won't leave."

Nancy seems satisfied by my answer, and she tugs the curtain around the bathtub not long after, leaving me to perch on the edge of the toilet lid while steam from the shower drifts out in small tendrils over the top of the curtain. I want to get the story from Jonathan so badly it is almost like a physical ache, but I remain exactly where I am, regardless.

I promised Nancy that I would stay put. And she is very obviously scared out of her mind because of whatever it is the two of them encountered out there in the woods.

She needs me to stay by her side more than I need answers right now, and so I scoot back to get more comfortable, my fingers drumming against the fabric of my jeans while I try to pretend I can't hear Nancy, sobbing softly behind the curtain of the shower.

Denial is a woman's best friend, right?

Or at least it is when said woman is dealing with interdimensional monsters and little girls that can move things with their mind.

…

"Wait. So she—she went through a tree—"

"She was trying to find out what happened to the deer," Jonathan confirms, glancing down to where Nancy's left hand still remains tightly clamped around his own, her right hand mirroring the effort with my own as I sit squeezed against her other side, "And she ended up in this—other place. Where it—where the monster—"

"Demogorgon."

"What?"

"The demogorgon," I repeat, aware of Jonathan's questioning look, and frowning a bit before settling on a way of explaining the term without divulging everything I have learned through my involvement with Lucas, Dustin, Eleven and Mike, "It's what the boys have been calling it."

"What, like a thing from D&D?"

"Yeah. That's what they tell me anyway. And if it—if it helps them cope, or whatever—"

"No, I—I get it," Jonathan says, sighing a bit as Nancy shifts to lean her head against my shoulder, the look he gives her causing me to lift a brow at him, only to find my curiosity growing as he flushes and ducks his head to stare intently at his lap not long after, "Anyway, she was in that other world, and the—demogorgon—was eating the deer, and it almost got her when she was trying to get back to me, and—"

"Jesus Christ."

"Yeah. I know."

My arms tighten around Nancy almost immediately, and she winds her own around my waist, her body trembling while my cheek comes to rest against her hair. And I see that look on Jonathan's face again. Something not all that far from longing, as though he is wishing Nancy were clinging to him like this instead of me.

I can't say anything about it though because Nancy is between us, my teeth worrying at my lower lip for a moment before I settle for another subject, instead.

"What do we do now?"

"I don't—I don't know. I mean we could always go back out there and look for it again but—"

"But there's no guarantee that we'll all get out," I surmise, noting Jonathan's skeptically raised brow, and lifting my own to mirror it before going on, "What?"

"We?"

"You don't actually think I'd let you and Nancy go off after that thing on your own again, do you? Because if you do, Jonathan, than you're a lot dumber than I—"

"You'd come with us?"

"Three on one has to be better odds than what you had tonight, yeah?"

Jonathan can't seem to hide his snort in response to that, his gaze dropping to his lap again while his shoulders shake in barely suppressed laughter. And in spite of our circumstances—of his own fear, and Nancy's almost palpable terror—I allow myself to laugh a little, too, moving to begin settling Nancy in bed, and biting down on my lower lip to avoid a smirk as Jonathan almost immediately moves to help me do the same.

Whatever had happened tonight in the woods, with Jonathan and Nancy and the demogorgon, I am almost certain something else might have happened, too. Something far less dangerous, but still not exactly easy to explain…

Something that has me all but convinced that when all of this is said and done—assuming we all make it through alive—the drama will be far from over.

…

"You brought a gun to hang out with Mike?"

"Um—yeah?"

"Cami, what the hell!"

"Look, I—you know I saw that thing, too," I begin, hoping with all I have that the explanation I came up with in literal seconds will not only reassure Nancy, but get her to back down before I am forced to tell her things Mike would definitely not want her to know, "And I knew you and Jonathan were going after it, but if it somehow decided to come back here, I—there was no way in hell I was gonna let it get a hold of the boys, so—"

"So you stole one of your dad's guns."

"So I stole one of my dad's guns. And if he finds out, I'm dead meat, so maybe we can get this show on the road?"

Nancy nods, and turns back to the task of donning her jacket, allowing me just a moment to breathe a muffled sigh of relief as a result. I'd already managed to slip away, just long enough to tell Mike in no uncertain terms that before he and Dustin head off in search of Eleven, they are to find Lucas as well, to make things right. And even though a part of me hedges over the idea of leaving them alone in their search, I know without a doubt that I cannot let Nancy and Jonathan face what they did last night on their own for a second time.

Shortly after we woke up, the plan was made. Head to the store. Stock up on as many supplies that could possibly kill a monster of the demogorgon's magnitude as three underage teenagers can legally buy. And then go after it again. Track it. Find it. Kill it.

Kill it, or die trying, to be more accurate.

I would be lying to pretend I'm not scared by everything the day appears to entail, but before I can decide whether or not to say anything to Nancy about that, footsteps are coming down the hall, and Jonathan is slipping into the room again after using the bathroom while Mr. and Mrs. Wheeler eat breakfast downstairs. While they remain completely unaware that their daughter had a boy in her room last night…

While they remain blissfully ignorant of what their daughter and her friends are about to do, right now.

"Ready?"

"Yeah. Yeah, let's—let's go."

Nancy is already opening her bedroom window and preparing to shimmy her way out onto the roof, and Jonathan is eyeing my dad's gun as I slide it back into my bag. I give him an almost challenging look, daring him to say something because I know he plucked a gun from his dad's car at the funeral just one day prior.

He doesn't say anything, though, even if he does seem to want to, and I allow him to lead me over to the window to follow after Nancy, my lips thinning as I glance down and exhale in a shaky rush.

"I swear to God, Jonathan, if I break something I will kick your ass the minute whatever it is heals."

"Sounds fair to me."

"Don't even think about pushing me—"

"Wouldn't dream of it," Jonathan quips, the corners of his mouth twitching as I narrow my eyes at him, only just resisting the urge to give him a shove through sheer force of will alone, "You should probably get down there before Nancy starts freaking out, yeah?"

I know he is right, whether I really want to admit it or not, and so I begin the task of climbing out of the window and onto the roof, carefully avoiding a prolonged look to where Nancy waits on the ground in hopes of waylaying my panic as long as I can.

A part of me regrets not pursuing the attempt to reach my dad. Especially when I'm not really sure Jonathan or Nancy would have stopped me. But there really isn't anything I can do about that now, save for continuing as I am, and so I grit my teeth and shimmy down to the ground, miraculously without incident, Nancy's hand somehow finding my own as I manage a few steps back to wait for Jonathan to do the same.

As I pray to a God I stopped believing when Sara died that the three of us will be enough to end this for good.

…

"What's the weirdest part? Me, or the bear trap?"

"You. It's definitely you."

I can't help but laugh at the banter between Jonathan and Nancy as I lug one of the bags of assorted weaponry toward Jonathan's trunk, and he takes it from my arms to place it inside. He's got that look on his face again. The one that all but screams that he wants something more with Nancy than what he's got.

For her part, Nancy doesn't seem to notice, but that doesn't stop me from giving Jonathan a questioning look, regardless, his cheeks almost immediately flushing as he scrambles to regain control of the conversation before I can say another word.

"What about you, Cami? Me, or the bear trap?"

"Oh you. One hundred percent," I retort, sending Jonathan a sweet smile as he rolls his eyes and reaches out to give me a shove, before turning his attention to slamming the trunk closed, instead, "We've—we've got this, right?"

"Totally."

"Yeah. Totally," Nancy repeats, managing a faint smile of her own, though I can tell in seconds that it does not come close to reaching her eyes. We all share a look, then, our unspoken worries and fears passing between us in silence. But just as we are preparing to clamber back inside the car, a horn honking from the street distracts us, a teen I can't quite place leaning half out of the window to holler at us before his friend's car is too far away for him to be heard.

"Hey Nance! Can't wait to see your movie."

The three of us look at one another, equal parts confused and apprehensive, and then Nancy is moving off at a brisk walk to the end of the block, Jonathan and I jogging after her to catch up. It takes a minute for me to realize where she is looking. For comprehension to sink in, because at first, I cannot understand why her expression is so horrified.

But then I see it. Red spray paint plastered over the marquee of The Hawk…

All The Right Moves. Starring Nancy 'The Slut' Wheeler.

Jesus Christ.

Nancy is running toward the theater in seconds, and Jonathan and I hurry to follow after her, my stomach already turning, even before I hear the sound of a familiar voice wafting out from an alley nearby.

"Tommy, you write like a three year old."

"Shut up."

"I didn't know you could spell."

"Aw, hey there, princess!" Carol sneers, sliding her hands into her jacket pockets as Nancy makes it into the alleyway proper, Jonathan and I hot on her heels, "And look, she brought her body guards along for the ride!"

"Uh oh, she looks upset. But Byers, man, he just looks—guilty."

"Shut the hell up, Tommy," I hiss, squaring my shoulders as he feigns a lunge toward me, my fingers curling into fists at my sides as though a part of me is all but itching for a fight. And hell, maybe I am, because I am beyond tired of my friends paying the price just to be the brunt of a popular kid's joke.

I'm tired of seeing Jonathan getting hurt. Tired of seeing Nancy getting hurt, too. Barb. Even, to some extent, myself.

And the common denominator, for all intents and purposes, is currently reeling backwards in surprise as Nancy hauls off and slaps him in the face.

"What is wrong with you?" She demands, her eyes shining as she continues to stare at Steve, her lower lip trembling even though I can see how fiercely she is trying to keep her tears at bay.

"What's wrong with me? No, what's wrong with you?" Steve scoffs, one hand massaging his cheek where Nancy's blow struck true, his attention remaining fixed on her, even though he has to be aware of me moving to hover at his side to back her up, if need be, "You know, I was actually worried about you."

"What are you talking about?"

"I wouldn't lie if I were you," Carol advises, her grin so self-congratulatory that it is all I can do to resist the urge to wipe the smugness from her stupid, stuck-up face, "You wouldn't want to be known as the lying slut, now would you?"

Nancy looks between Jonathan and I for answers, and even if the two of them are momentarily at a loss for what is going on, I am now all but certain that I know, something in my expression clearly tipping Nancy off as she squeezes her eyes shut for a moment, and then turns back to Steve with a resigned sigh.

"You came by last night."

"Ding ding ding! Does she get a prize?"

"Look, I don't know what you think you saw, but it wasn't like that."

"What, you just let him into your room to—study?"

"No."

"Oh, I'm sorry, Cam, did I ask for your opinion?"

"You didn't. But you're getting it anyway," I press, maneuvering myself until I am effectively standing between Steve and Nancy, every muscle taut because I can't entirely trust that Steve will not try to push me away, "Whatever it is you're thinking, you're wrong."

"Yeah? How the hell do you know that, huh? I mean I know it's your thing to defend your little boyfriend, but—"

"I know because I was there, asshole!"

"Right. You were just conveniently invisible when I looked in the window."

"Or maybe I was in the bathroom, Steve! Last I checked, I don't owe you an itemized list of what I do in a day!"

"In the bathroom, huh?" Tommy cuts in, leering at me with a grin stretched across his face as he steps up to Steve's side, and I straighten just a bit in response, "Getting your makeup and panties ready for another pervy photo session?"

Before I can fully realize it, I am charging forward toward Tommy, my fist already angling to meet his face, but before I can connect the blow, the sudden pressure of an arm winding around my waist halts my progress in seconds, flat. It takes me a minute to realize Jonathan is the one towing me backward, even with the struggle I put up to make it difficult to do exactly that. Dimly, I can hear him pleading with Nancy to come with us, desperate to just get the two of us away.

It seems that someone else is just as reluctant to give up the fight as I am, though, my eyes tracking Steve's movements as he follows after us and gives Jonathan enough of a shove to have his arm loosening around my waist, and sending me stumbling just a bit as a result.

"You know what, Byers? I'm actually kind of impressed," He begins, shoving Jonathan again, and effectively pushing him past the point where either Nancy or I could attempt to intervene, "I always took you for a queer, but I guess you're just a little screw up like your father. Yeah, that house is full of screw ups—"

"Steve, stop!"

"Nah, man, don't listen to her. You tell him!"

"—I'm not even surprised, what happened to your brother—"

"Steve, shut up!"

I honestly should have known my exclamation would do little good, but still, I am somewhat startled at the utter rage in Jonathan's expression as he reels around to aim a solid punch against Steve's jaw. I've never seen him like this before. This angry. This unhinged. But then again, Will's life has never been hanging in the balance, before. There hasn't been an interdimensional monster wreaking havoc in our town.

Jonathan lashes out with another solid hit, and then Steve tackles him to the ground, Nancy and I scrambling after them as they flail around in a tangle of limbs and flying fists.

"Steve—Jesus Christ, get off of—OW!" I exclaim, my attempt at tugging him away from Jonathan, who he is now practically punching into the cement failing as I catch one of Steve's stray elbows to the nose and go tumbling backwards in next to no time at all. Pain explodes behind my eyes, the alley whiting out for a minute as I tumble onto my ass, and the air drives out of my lungs in a rush.

In the background, behind the ringing in my ears, I can vaguely hear scuffling sounds. Grunts, and muted blows of fists against solid bone and muscle. But I can't seem to do anything about that, even with my instinctive desire to get Steve away from Jonathan as soon as I can.

It isn't until the sound of sirens approaching registers in my mind that I am capable of any sort of movement at all, Nancy's sudden presence at my side giving me the wherewithal to haul myself upright. Tommy and Carol are already scrambling off down the alley trying to escape, and Steve wrestles his way out of Jonathan's grasp not long after…

I don't know why I try to bolt after him. Not really, because my vision is blurring so badly I can barely see, and Nancy is practically screaming in my ear for me to stop. But before I can get more than three or four steps in, I find an arm winding around my waist yet again, the pressure it applies significantly harder—stronger—as a familiar voice echoes in my ear.

"Oh no you don't—"

"Let me go!"

"Don't think so, kid," Callahan replies, his hold only tightening on me as I find myself getting dragged back towards a squad car at the mouth of the alley, the distinct sound of handcuffs clicking in place pulling my attention to where Powell is holding Jonathan hostage nearby, while Callahan addresses his partner directly, "You take that one. I've got the girls."

Callahan shoves me into the back of his cruiser with a little less dignity than I would like, and Nancy sidles in beside me, her own dejection probably mirrored on my face as we both seem to realize there is no way to avoid the truth, now.

All of our plans have officially gone up in smoke.

And I may wind up getting that chance to talk to my dad after all.

…