Shining among Darkness

By
WingzemonX

Chapter 03.
A different nature

On Wednesday of her first week in Oregon, Matilda had her third session with Samara and was the first in which she managed to get them to talk outside of that interrogation room where the two previous ones had gotten. Matilda had suggested the cafeteria, but Dr. Scott's goodwill didn't go that far. Instead, he allowed them to use a special room to interview children, smaller than Samara. It was a room structurally similar to the other: same dimensions, entirely white, a single door, and a double mirror at one end. However, it had several things inside, so they made seeing and feeling the space more pleasant: small chairs, a couple of couches, toys, balls, coloring books, and, of course, colors. There was also a tapestry of flowers and grass covering the lower part of the wall, and paper figures hanging from the ceiling.

That room should make more comfortable a child of five or six, for sure. But, Matilda wasn't sure if it could work with a twelve-year-old girl like Samara. Likewise, she hoped that anything could be better than that white room.

In the first instance, Samara did not seem to show emotion or repudiation of the new scenario; the coldness and indifference of her face had remained constant since their talk last Monday. She led her to one of the coloring tables, and they sat on the chairs (which were apparently quite small for both of them, but at least the young girl with long black hair could accommodate herself better).

After a few casual minutes that mainly consisted of asking about how she felt, if had eaten well, and if wanted to talk about something in particular (which she responded by merely shaking her head), Matilda quickly moved on to something else. From his briefcase, which she always brought with her, she took out a rectangle that was a little thick, just a little taller and longer than a legal size sheet. Samara looked at it curiously. At first glance, it seemed like a pack of white paper sheets, but it was evident that they were thicker than regular sheets. They were like little cardboard to paint. Matilda took out one of them and placed it on the table, right in front of her.

"I'd like you to draw something for me if you feel ok doing it," she said softly, widening his smile.

Samara looked at her askance for a while, in silence.

"What thing?"

"Whatever you want." Matilda shrugged and sat upright in her little chair. "What comes to your mind?"

Samara kept looking at her for a few more moments as if hesitating between doing it or not. In the end, she seemed to accept, because she extended her right hand to the pencil jar near her on the table. However, Matilda stopped her.

"If you want to do it with a pencil, pen or watercolor, it's perfect." The psychiatrist said. "But, if it's not an inconvenience for you, I'd like you to do it the other way." There was a small pause. "You know, the one only you can do."

There was a curious, playful tone accompanying Matilda's words. Samara hesitated; she had no problem understanding what Matilda wanted, but she didn't seem at all ready to do it.

"No pressure, Samara." Matilda hastened to mention, and unconsciously extended her hand with the intention of touching her shoulder, but regretted the act halfway and quickly backed away. It could be too early to cross the line of physical contact. "Remember, with me, you don't have to do or say anything that you don't want. Agree?"

Samara remained silent. It was so difficult to understand what was going through her mind. It was at times like that in which Matilda thought she would have liked a little less telekinesis if in exchange she managed to have a little more telepathy; that would have made her job so simple. But she did not do that because it was complicated or straightforward, and in one way or another, she had to do her work.

The silence lasted for more than a minute in which Matilda waited patiently. When Samara finally reacted, it was so sudden that Matilda missed the moment Samara's right hand landed on the white rectangle front her and pressed her fingers to the material. Her eyes focused on it, and she made a small grimace as if trying to lift something heavy.

They spent about ten seconds in which nothing happened. But suddenly, in front of the pending eyes of the psychiatrist, several brown lines began to spread through the paper, as if someone had poured ink on it. They extended to the sides and upwards, drawing several curves. But it was not drawing precisely: it was as if something very hot, but very thin at the same time, touched the cardboard and burned it, leaving a mark on the surface. It looked like this, but it was not the same. It did not smell burned, and the lines were not on the surface or created cracks in it: it was as if they were part of the same material as if it had been manufactured like that from the beginning.

The curves, at first unconnected and without a logical order, soon began to take shape: altogether they created the image of a tree, large, but with its bare branches, without any leaves in it. And it was quite detailed and realistic, like the drawing of a true professional artist.

Once the drawing was captured, Samara slowly withdrew her hand from the paper, and hid it on her legs, under the table. She lowered her head, and her hair fell over her face as if trying to hide it in grief.

Matilda took the cardboard carefully with both hands and glanced at it more carefully. She slipped her fingers over the surface; in effect, it didn't feel as if the tree had been carved or pressed on him; just it appeared there. She was not surprised that Samara made that tree; in fact, she expected it.

"It's wonderful, Samara," Matilda said with genuine admiration. "I have seen you frequently draw this tree in the other illustrations that Dr. Scott show me. Is anyone in your house?

"No," the girl said hurriedly, surprisingly quickly considering that she habitually took her time to answer. "It's a tree that I see sometimes... in my dreams."

Matilda quickly took note of this information in the notebook she brought with her. In a world where everyone seemed to prefer using tablets with touch screens, she still preferred paper and pencil for almost everything.

It was not directly related, but that comment made Matilda think in something she wanted to ask her in advance.

"The other doctors say you still can't sleep regularly." She waited to see if there was a reaction in her, but there wasn't. "Is there something special that makes you stay awake? Do you have nightmares?"

There was a slight reaction on Samara: a small jump that made her raise her head by mere reflection.

"Most of the time." She murmured very slowly.

"What kind of nightmares?"

"With water... there's water always. Sometimes it feels like I'm drowning and I can't get out."

Matilda was intrigued by it. Water? That could mean many things. Could it be linked to the incident of the horses that were drowned?

"How do you feel in those moments? Desperate? Scared?"

"All that and more."

Matilda rushed to write down everything she could. That would definitely be a topic that would play often, but for now, she decided to shelve it and move on to another.

"I would like to talk a little about your mother. They told me that she is also here. Do you often talk with her?

Again a reaction, but not a positive one at all. Samara's face crouched once more and, under the table, her fingers moved nervously between them.

"She doesn´t want to see me," Samara replied. "She hates me."

"I'm sure it's not like that," Matilda hurried to clarify. "She's just scared, and she's here for help, just like you..."

"They won't be able to help her," snapped Samara suddenly, in a somewhat aggressive tone. "Just as you can't help me..."

Matilda realized that more than aggressiveness, her words were loaded with a certain melancholy, easily contagious.

Mr. Morgan had indicated that the relationship between Samara and her mother had been diluted over the months, and the incident with the horses had been the end of it. Matilda was someone who from the day of her birth was never even remotely close to her biological mother. Also, from the time of her first day in elementary school, she had a reasonably good, affectionate and respectful relationship with her adopted mother. So, it was a bit difficult for her to imagine what it was like to have a mother who you think loves you, and the next day feels that she hates you.

It was apparent to Matilda, even before getting on the plane that had taken her to this place, that the matter with her mother was an important factor (if it was not the main one), of that closed, cold and aggressive state Samara had sunk. If she wanted to have any chance of getting her out of it, the key was Mrs. Morgan.

"Would you like me to arrange you could talk to your mom?" Matilda questioned her gently, making Samara have the most significant reaction of the day.

Her eyes widened, and she immediately raised her face and turned it to see directly, expectantly; It seemed very similar to how she reacted when she promised to help her out of there.

"Can you do that?"

"I can try. Would you like that?"

Without hesitation, the little girl quickly nodded her head. Matilda thought that perhaps she had planted too much hope in her. But she had promised to try, so that would do the same.

"Then leave it in my hands, yes?" Matilda winked at her with conspiracy, and she thought saw a small trace of a smile on those slightly pink lips of Samara. "On another theme, it's very likely tomorrow we won't be able to see each other. I will just go to your house to talk to your father. Is there something you want me to tell him?"

Samara hesitated a moment, then shook her head carefully with denial. Apparently, the longing she had to see her father wasn't comparable to the one she had to see her mother. Maybe she felt some resentment towards him, seeing as the person who put them both in that place.

"Well, maybe there's something you want me to bring from your house?"

Again, a moment of silence before her response.

"One of my dolls."

Matilda was a little surprised, but she tried to prevent her face to reflect it. She did not think that the girls of that time still played with dolls, less those of twelve years old, who already for that age cared more about fashion artists and surfing the internet. Could it be a sign of a small regression? She did not want to be so obvious writing it at the time but made a mental note for later. Maybe she was exaggerating, and Samara was just a twelve-year-old girl who still liked dolls.

"Is there a particular doll you want me to bring you?"

"Nancy," Samara answered with a whisper. "Nancy could keep me company."

After the session was over and Samara was taken to rest in her room, the same restraint room from which she had not managed to get her out, Matilda went to Dr. Scott's office to discuss some significant issues. The first, and perhaps simplest, was the theme of the doll. The Good Doctor answered it without much hesitation with a series of points on the security measures of the institution, to protect both staff and other patients.

"It's a doll we're talking about, not a knife," Matilda exclaimed, almost indignant, sitting on one of the chairs facing John's minimalist desk.

"If you had enough experience in this type of institution, Doctor," he began to say, without taking his eyes off the flat monitor of his computer, as he typed quickly and carefully. Matilda hoped he was not chatting with anyone else as they spoke. "Then you would know that even the least thought object can become a weapon in the hands of aggressive patients with the willingness to hurt someone. And this patient, in particular, is already aggressive enough without it."

"All of you made it very clear: you feel uncomfortable in the presence of this girl. But after these three sessions, I start to wonder if it's not you who are aggressive with her, and those who encourage her to do whatever she has done to you."

Scott separated his eyes from the monitor and turned to look at her over the frame of his glasses with an undisguised annoyance. It was good to know that little by little they became more honest with each other with the passing of days.

"As I said before, just wait a little longer, and you'll understand it," he warned, or instead threatened, bluntly, before turning back to his computer.

Matilda simply sighed.

"Well, how about I bring the doll and she only uses it while she's in session with me? I don't think you really care about my safety, do you? In the room we were in today there were many dangerous colored pencils and toys."

"I don't know if the paperwork will worth it. But as you like, Doctor."

Well, a triumph, or something like that. And in spite of everything, that had been the most straightforward request; Matilda did not even want to imagine what the next one would be like.

"One more thing. I'd like to talk to Mrs. Morgan."

"That won't be possible," Scott replied, much more neutral and quickly than expected. "She doesn't talk to anyone, and less will talk to you. Her behavior has become violent, and we have to keep her sedated all the time."

"Something I heard about that, but I'll have to insist. Heal the relationship with her mother, will be crucial to Samara's recovery. She feels her mother hates her for what happened, and it is important for her to know that this is not the case.

"Well, it'll be difficult, because it is."

Matilda was startled a little when she heard him say such a thing, and her almost murderous look was enough to show that it had not seemed in the least. Either the subject required more of her attention, or maybe the critical thing he was doing was over, because at that moment Scott finally took his eyes off the monitor, and turned his chair entirely towards her.

"Listen to me, you've only been talking with this girl for three days, and maybe you think with that, and with your supposed experience in this field, you already know everything you need to know about her. But it's not like that. The images that she creates with her mind, not only she does on paper or radiographs; she can do it in the heads and dreams of people."

"I already know that…"

"No, you don't know," Scott said energetically. "She did it with her horses on the farm, and she did it with her mother practically since she was a baby. The horses jumped into a ravine thanks to it; Mrs. Morgan... she wasn't so lucky than they."

"She doesn't control it yet," Matilda answered, trying to sound as safe as possible. "Nothing she has done, and that includes here in this hospital, has been intentional."

"Try to explain that to her mother."

"I'll do it with pleasure if you arrange I can talk to her. Not right now, but soon."

Scott huffed, annoyed, and did not answer anything else.

"Please, at least try to ask if she would receive me. I'll see Mr. Morgan tomorrow. I can ask him directly, but it would be easier if you fix it, do not you think?"

Scott looked at her condescendingly, like an adult sees a stubborn child who asks him, again and again, the same request, no matter how hard you say no. Even so, in the end, he shrugged, resigned.

"I live to serve you, Doctor."

"And then he turned back to his computer, perhaps ending his talk in that way. Matilda liked it; what she least wanted was to be a second longer in that office that reeked of his overloaded lotion, perhaps marinated a little with his own ego.

Matilda stood up and withdrew in silence. She went immediately to her hotel to prepare herself. She had an important date that night, after all.

At eight o'clock, western time, Matilda was already bathed, groomed, combed, and lightly made up; nothing exaggerated, just a little to hide the small eyes bags of fatigue began to draw, and some blush to color her cheeks. She put on casual clothes, but clean and ironed. Not even when she had a date with a boy, the few times she had actually had it, was arranged so early and carefully. And the worst part was that she was not even going to leave the room. Well, maybe taking advantage of the fact that she was already fixed, she would go out to a restaurant nearby to dinner. But the initial intention of his arrangement was a simple video call by Skype.

But in reality, that simple call had nothing simple in it. Nothing was simple when it came to talking to Jane Wheeler, the founder and head of the Eleven Foundation. In spite of all the years she had known her, she kept getting nervous every time she saw her; and that included even if it was just her image on a screen. And she was more than just being her boss; for Matilda, Jane was much more than that. Besides that under that constant smile and friendly attitude, you had always felt something slightly frightening in her, something that inspired you to bend over at her mere glance, even Matilda, the one supposed to not bend to anyone. Whatever that something was, Matilda was sure it was beyond her Shining. Because, indeed, Jane Wheeler had it, and a powerful one.

Now ready, Matilda sat on the desk in the room, placed his laptop on it and lit it. A few minutes later, the person who waited appeared as connected, and the call began. Matilda took a deep breath and sat upright in her chair; she felt for a moment like a girl going from a moment of relaxation to one of complete seriousness, when the teacher enters the classroom.

On the screen, the video showed in a blink the foreground of a woman's face, already in her fifties, but still with a pretty preserved and elegant look, with dark brown hair, slightly curly, very natural, and short, loose shoulder-length; she looked distinguished. The woman smiled broadly from ear to ear as soon as she saw the image of Matilda on her own computer; her lips were discreetly painted pink.

"Pretty Matilda," her voice was heard through the notebook speakers. "How does the West Coast treat you?"

"Good evening, Mrs. Wheeler," she said hastily, and then had to clear her throat a bit before proceeding. "Better than I expected. Thanks for asking."

The woman on the screen looked at her with slight severity in her large, bright, light brown eyes.

"Matilda, you're too old to I have to be reminded you every time you don't have to call me Mrs. Wheeler or Mrs. Jane. Or not?"

Matilda blushed a little at that little scolding. The formal treatment was something she did almost without thinking with certain people who gave her enormous respect; she kept calling her own mother Miss Honey many times, without realizing it.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she repeated hastily, inhaling some air through her nose. "I feel fine, Eleven..."

The woman on the screen smiled satisfied.

She would never forget the words she had used to present herself the first time when she was maybe thirteen or fourteen years old: "My name is Jane, but you can call me Eleven. All my friends do it." And, apparently, that was what she told all the children she came to know in her work, because all her acquaintances of the Foundation, especially those with the Shining as herself, call her like that. She was their Aunt Eleven, their Mama Eleven, and their Teacher Eleven, though she insisted that it was only their Friend Eleven.

Many had come to ask her the reason of that nickname, which also gave the name to the Foundation, but only to a few, including Matilda herself, she had answered with the full story. And on why she had decided to call the Foundation in that way, she just said: "It wasn't my idea, it's a pretty firm suggestion from my now husband and my other friends. In the end, I think I got used to calling it like that."

"Did you visited your mother already?" Friend Eleven asked, curious.

"Not yet. I will do it once I finish here."

"Perfect; I know it would bother her a lot if you didn't. It would bother me."

Mrs. Wheeler's oldest daughter had already finished college and worked in New York in a Real Estate business, of which Matilda was not entirely well informed; for sure that was the origin of the comment. Her second son, a twenty-year-old boy, was studying in Bloomington, and she still had a sixteen-year-old girl at home to take care of. And even so, she continued directing every step of the Foundation from her home in the peaceful Hawkins, Indiana. And nothing escaped her... never.

Jane's face became relatively severe suddenly.

"Well, before starting, do you have anything else to add to the information that you already sent me?"

Matilda also opted for a more serious position. The reason for the call was to talk about the work that had taken her to Oregon, and more specifically about her current patient: Samara Morgan, and her first impressions after those early days.

Matilda told Eleven a summarized of the situation between Matilda and her mother, and how it seemed to be seriously affecting the little one. She told her she wished to speak with Mrs. Morgan in person, and then try to agree they both could see each other if she saw fit. Eleven listened to everything carefully, only nodding her head from time to time.

"It's quite difficult for a child who shines feels the rejection of everyone, especially their own parents."

"I know that very well." And she really knew it. "What do you think? My approach has been the right one?"

"Your decisions so far seem more than adequate, as they always are."

Those words illuminated the face of the young psychiatrist, without her realizing it. It was a strange thing, how could still cause an effect like that on her the words of encouragement of the right person.

"Is there anything special that you think I should do from here on?"

"Yes." Eleven's tone and face took on a somewhat strange, almost melancholy feeling that took Matilda a little by surprise." I don't want you to take it badly, Matilda... But I think you should withdraw from this case."

Suddenly, the joy and emotion that had arisen in her vanished when she heard her say that last, which now left her totally stunned. Matilda thought maybe she had heard or misunderstood, but the message was totally clear, and she did not understand in the least where it had come from.

"What? But why?" She exclaimed, almost alarmed. "If I've only been here three days, and I feel like I'm making a lot of progress. You just told me that my decisions so far have been the right ones. What did I do wrong?"

"You didn't do anything wrong," Jane emphasized, raising her hands in front of her in a calm sign. "You are doing great, just as I expected from you. But after reviewing the information that you and the other doctors have compiled, I feel there is something in this case that could surpass you. You are a very competent person, and the fact I asked you to review the situation yourself, proves it. But I genuinely believe that this girl may be beyond what you have seen before. And for your own safety, I can't ask you to keep digging into this."

Matilda felt confused, even slightly dizzy with everything she said. A few hours ago, she had just told Dr. Scott the fear everyone there professed to Samara was wholly unfounded, and now her own mentor was telling her practically the same thing as they?

As I said before, just wait a little longer, and you'll understand it, the Good Doctor had sentenced her.

"What's this all about?" Matilda questioned, unconsciously already something defensive. "What have you seen I don't?"

"It's more what I did not see," she replied in an almost lugubrious way. "There is something in this girl that is very different from what you already know, Matilda. Something..." She made a small pause of hesitation. "I can only say that her shining could be of a different nature."

"Different? What is that supposed to mean?" Her tone had become somewhat more aggressive, and that was quickly perceived by the woman on the screen.

"Listen to me..."

"No, you listen to me," Matilda interrupted sharply. "I don't know what all this is about, but it's from an innocent girl we're talking about; a girl who needs our help, to which her parents, and all her people, have almost entirely turned their backs on her, and if they were to leave her for the rest of her life where she was locked up. It is precisely to help children like her because I am in the Foundation, and I will not abandon her."

"I don't tell you to abandon her." The tone of Jane was also charged with impulse. "I only think that it would be pertinent, for the good of the girl, and your own, that you put the case in the hands of someone with another type of experience."

"Who has more experience in treating children with this kind of problems than me?"

"I didn't say more experience. I said "another" kind of experience."

Matilda raised an eyebrow, intrigued.

"What another kind of experience?"

Eleven was silent, holding Matilda's gaze with intensity on her screen.

"It's not something you can talk on Skype. I can only tell you there is a huge aspect of the Shining you still don't know. And this girl may be more of this other aspect."

More obscure words and unclear answers; all this seemed to desperate Matilda little by little. It was the first time Eleven made her feel that way; at least she didn´t remember another one.

"Look, I do not understand what you're talking about," Matilda said firmly, raising her voice a little involuntarily. "But with all the respect I have for you, I have to tell you that it would be a mistake for you to take me out of this case. Samara's already starting to open with me; I think I'm making a connection with her, something that Scott and his group of crazy doctors haven't accomplished in more than a month. And if you take me off and put someone else on, that could throw all that progress overboard, and maybe she won't open up like that again. I started it, and I'm willing to finish it, even if it has to happen over you."

She sat down firmly in the chair and took a deep breath, trying not even to blink.

"And I am determined to do so!"

And after exposed her intentions, Matilda stayed in the same position, reflecting security, maturity, and decision, from her look to his position. However, inside, her heart beat a thousand per hour, and an internal voice shouted: "Did you just raise your voice to Eleven?! Have you gone crazy?!"

She had spoken that way too many people before, but never to two: Eleven and her adoptive mother. Now there was only the latter. Perhaps she had let herself be carried away by her courage, and she had not stopped to contemplate the consequences, and now that had her dead with fear, even if she remained firm on the outside.

Jane, for her part, remained silent, watching her from the other side of the call, with an almost somber expression that Matilda did not know how to interpret. That constant smile was no longer there. That situation lasted for nearly a minute, in which Matilda repeatedly considered shouting she was sorry and she hadn't wanted to say it that way. However, to her relief... although in reality, it was not so much, in the end, Eleven smiled again; In fact, she let out a small laugh of amusement.

"Did you know that even when you try to be threatening, you can't help being adorable?" She released her suddenly, causing Matilda to blush gravely after the comment. "I have always admired your passion, Pretty Matilda, and I'm glad to see you have the determination to take this to the best possible end. However..." her face suddenly became serious again. "You have to be very clear this girl... is not Carrie White."

Matilda was startled, almost scared, to hear her say that, and her breathing was cut off. Any determination, firmness or security that would have remained in her, it went to the ground because she heard that single name.

Matilda was unable to respond.

"The similarities between both cases are more than obvious. You will not deny them, right?" Matilda still said nothing. "You can't let your emotions about what happened back then, project on this girl, Matilda. It is not right, and it can be dangerous."

Matilda hesitated a little, and when at last she tried to speak, she almost stammered. She took a second and took a deep breath to calm down. It was not fair to bring that subject to light; Eleven knew very well how it affected her. However, deep down, she knew if she did it, it was for a reason.

Carrie White... It had been a long time since she'd heard someone say that name aloud, even though it was hanging around her head quite often.

"They don't," Matilda said at last, as firmly as she could. "I am aware of everything you are telling me, and still I remain firm in my decision."

Matilda expected a reply, but Eleven only sighed, shrugged, and smiled again, though less effusively than before.

"It's okay; it would not be right to insist on something that naturally you decided so firmly. But at least let me find someone else who can support you with this."

"I think Cody is working in Seattle," the young psychiatrist said quickly; the idea had already crossed her mind in advance, and in fact, she hoped to be able to comment on the point along that call. "He could help me. I begin to think his Shining shares certain similarities to Samara's."

"Yes, Cody's help would be useful," Eleven agreed cautiously. "But I still think you'll need someone else."

"Someone with that another kind of experience?"

A funny little laugh escaped from the woman's lips at the computer.

"You've always been the smartest in the room, Matilda. Or... from the chat window. I'll make some calls; I have someone in mind, but I must see if he is available. Meanwhile, I suggest you investigate the story of the girl a little more."

"Her story?" Matilda questioned, surprised. "What happens with her story? If you mean the horse incident, I already..."

"No," Eleven interrupted abruptly, "I'm not talking about that. I'm talking about her story much further back. One of our collaborators gave me more information about her, you should check if you plan to continue treating her. I'll send this to you as soon as we hang up."

Suddenly, Eleven leaned toward the camera, as if trying in some way to get close enough to whisper a secret in her ear. Her gaze again became hard, almost terrifying. And as a storyteller to the fire of a bonfire, finishing telling a story, she whispered in a slow and slow tone...

"Be very careful, Matilda..."

An instant later, before the young doctor could answer something, the call ended, abruptly, without any goodbye or good wishes.

Matilda wondered if perhaps there was some anger in Eleven for her rudeness. She liked to think Eleven was not the kind of person who would react in that way. Maybe it was more a bit of apprehension, because of the situation worried her so much, although she still did not understand precisely why.

What exactly did mean when she said that Samara's Shining could be of a different nature? What kind of other experience would have the person who intended to send her? What is it Eleven, and apparently Dr. Scott and his group, have seen in this girl that she just doesn't? And, if they were right? What if there really was something in all that surpassed her? What if she was not really the right person to help Samara?

No, nothing of that.

What she had just said on that call was a pure truth: she was there to help Samara Morgan, and she would do it no matter what...

Matilda was not aware of how much time she was thinking right there, sitting in front of the computer, until she heard the sound of an email entering her inbox, accompanied by a notification in the lower right corner of her computer. The sender was precisely Eleven herself.

She opened it at that very moment, curious to know what exactly it was that she had discovered about Samara's past, especially if it could shed some light on what bothered her former mentor so much. Attached to the mail was several documents, but it was only enough to open one of them. Unfortunately, it did not serve her precisely to understand the cryptic message Eleven had left her with her words... but equally, what the document said, left her almost with an open mouth.

Stunned, she reviewed the rest of the documents, but all were basically a complement to the first.

She leaned against her back, turned pensively to the side, looking at any point on the carpet in the room, and tried to understand how to react based on what she had just read.

END OF CHAPTER 03

AUTHOR'S NOTES:

—Jane Wheeler is based on the Eleven character from the Netflix series, Stranger Things of 2016. Jane is the real name of the character, according to the name that had been chosen by her mother, being her full real name Jane Ives. Wheeler is the last name of Mike, the protagonist of the series, with whom in this story she is married. In the original series, in its First Season occurs in 1983, she is only 12 years old. For this time, however, she will have around 46. By the time this chapter is written, only the First Season of the series has been released, and the premiere of the Second is expected shortly. So, for now, only the First will be taken into account as a reference for this history from here on, subject to seeing that after watching its Second Season there is some information, situation or moment that it considers to be useful to the plot.