It was six o'clock, and Christine was running late. She sped around her room, grabbing things frantically. If she was going to bike to the Byers' and back, she probably needed a second sweater. She would sweat right through her tee, for sure, and then she could change afterwards. And she should probably put her hair up now, so she didn't have to fight the windblown mess into a ponytail later. On second thought, this sweater was gonna feel like hell in an hour…

There was a knock at her door, and her father stuck his head into the room.

"Hey, bumblebee. I was thinking we could do tacos for dinner. That alright with you?"

"Can't," she answered, yanking a different sweater from her closet and stuffing it unceremoniously into her backpack. "I've got dinner with the Hollands tonight."

"Tuesday, right. I forgot." He patted her doorframe and retreated down the hall, leaving the door open behind him. A few seconds later, he reappeared. "Hang on, didn't we go to the Hollands last week?"

"Yeah, you and I did. Nancy and Steve are going tonight and I said I'd go with."

"Oh." He frowned thoughtfully, his fingers still drumming on the doorframe. "Why do you have to go with them? I mean, Nancy's been friends with Barbara for longer than you have. It can't be that awkward, can it?"

"Not for Nancy," Christine replied, brushing her hair up on top of her head, "but Steve hardly knew Barb at all. He feels really weird going over there, but he wants to be there for Nancy."

"So Steve goes to support Nancy, and you go to support Steve?"

Christine gave her father a look of supreme annoyance and pushed past him in the hallway.

"Sorry," he sighed. "Well hey, do—do you want a ride?"

"No, thanks! I've gotta run by the Byers' first—shit!"

She turned on her heel, sprinting past him again and hurrying to her closet. She shoved all the clothes to one side and fished out a hanger with a puffy white coat, sash and hat. The accessories she shoved into her backpack. The coat she struggled to pull on over her sweater.

Her father was looking more confused by the second.

"You have to run by the Byers' in your Halloween costume?"

"To bring them my Halloween costume. Jonathan needs to borrow it."

"Why?"

"Long story. Don't ask."

"Of course not."

"But I gotta run," she panted, shrugging on her backpack. "Love you! Bye!"

She pressed a kiss to his cheek and darted down the hallway. But as fast as she was moving, her father was still tailing her.

"Uh—are you sure this is such a good idea? Going to the Hollands?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, just going over there all the time. You have dinner with them, what? Three, four times a month? You don't think that's a little excessive?"

Christine stopped in her tracks and turned back, incredulous. "Dad…"

"I'm not trying to tell anyone how to cope, but…going over there week after week, stewing in the fact that Barbara left, reopening those wounds. It doesn't seem healthy. Hell, you're there more now than you were before Barb ran away."

"So what do you want from me?" she asked, her voice rising to a shout. "Mr. and Mrs. Holland keep inviting us over, and it feels pretty fucked up to say no to them!"

"Hey, language!"

"Well, what do you want me to say?"

"I—I…I honestly don't know."

Her father deflated, leaning heavily on the back of the couch. He rubbed a tired hand down his face and groaned against his palm. Christine hesitated. Seeing him so frustrated took almost all the fight out of her, but her stomach was still lurching from that phrase: "Barb ran away."

"You know, we never used to fight like this," her father sighed, baring a bitter smile. "When did that start to happen?"

"I don't know," she mumbled. "It just happened."

"It just happened." He nodded, staring ahead at the wall. "I knew your teenage years would be tough, but…I guess I never realized how hard they were gonna be. All the therapy, all the parenting books in the world wouldn't have prepared me for this. I was ready for—for boys and drinking, you know? Not kids going missing and best friends running off. I know the last year's been a lot, I just…I don't know how to help."

Christine bit her lip, hard. Her backpack slid to the floor and she joined her father against the couch. She had to sit about a foot away from him because of all the stuffing in the stupid coat, but she still did her best to pat his hand.

"You do help. A lot. Just by making dinner and watching TV with me. It makes me feel normal."

"I just wish I could do more."

"You took me to Indianapolis to see Billy Joel in February," she reminded him with a grin. "I don't think you could do anything more incredible than that."

"Well yeah," he chuckled. "I'm obviously the coolest dad ever. There's no arguing against that. I just…I wish we talked like we used to."

"Me too. It's just…it's a lot. Between trying to protect the kids and losing Barb…"

"Hey," he said firmly. "We talked about this. I know you care about Dustin and his friends, but it's not your job to take care of them. They've got parents, and like it or not, you're still a kid too. And you didn't lose Barb, alright? She left, for whatever reason she had. There was nothing you could've done."

Christine ducked her head. She didn't want him to see her trembling lip. There was a warmth on her shoulder, her father's hand gently stroking her back.

"But I know that doesn't take the hurt away."

"It doesn't," she agreed brokenly. "Like…it super doesn't."

"Anything I can say to make it better?"

"Maybe…that we can see Elton John next?" Her father snorted, which made her smile. "What about you? What should I say?"

"I don't know," he sighed. "I guess I'd just like to hear that this is something you actually want to do, and not some twisted kind of self-punishment. Or an act of teenage rebellion."

"Rebellion?" she laughed. "How is having dinner with my friend's parents an act of rebellion?"

"It's not, it's not. I mean, it wouldn't be. I don't know." He was beginning to look very shifty. "Unless of course, you were looking for an excuse to get out of the house because you're mad I'm friends with Chief Hopper."

Suddenly, Christine felt just as shifty as her dad.

"I'm not mad…"

"Don't lie to me," her father insisted. "You certainly haven't kept it a secret from Jim. I know you don't like him. I just can't figure out why. I mean, are you jealous? Did he crash a party you were at? Have you broken some law I don't know about?"

Christine had to duck her head again. If only he knew how close he was.

"I'm serious," he continued. "If you don't say anything I'm going to assume you've broken the law."

"No, Dad, I haven't broken the law. I just…I don't know. I don't like him. He's grumpy, he's patronizing, he treats everyone like they're inconveniencing him, and he just assumes that everyone is stupid, because he has to be the smartest one in the room."

Her father squinted down at her. "You got all that from a couple weeks watching football?"

"He comes to school sometimes," she clarified. "Assemblies and stuff."

"Right. Well, I can admit that Jim is a little…rough around the edges—"

Christine snorted, which only earned her another warning glance.

"—but he's a good man. If he wasn't, he never would've come to check on you in the first place."

This wasn't exactly true, but there wasn't much Christine could say about it. She wasn't allowed to talk about Eleven, or how Hopper had been hounding her since December to make sure she hadn't received any visits or secret messages. She couldn't talk about how he was probably working for Hawkins Lab, or that it was run by a top-secret government department run by omnipotent officials and agents and scientists that were monitoring everything in their dinky little town day in and day out.

As far as her dad was concerned, Hopper had swung by 66 Dover Avenue in January just to check up on Christine and her broken leg; it was a coincidence that she'd been out at work at the time. The men had got to talking, gone out for drinks, and they'd just clicked. Now, nine months later, Jim Hopper was the best friend her father had ever had.

"You know, when I took this office job," her dad began, "I did it because I wanted us to settle down. Give you some stability while you were going to school, so you could make friends. But it was so I could make friends too."

"You have friends," said Christine, and her dad chuckled.

"That would be an overstatement. There's some nice guys at the office, but around here? Here I have Claudia. Who I love, really, but she can be a little…"

"Kooky?"

"Eclectic," he corrected. "Outside of that, who do I talk to? Ted Wheeler?"

Both of them laughed. It was pretty much universally acknowledged that Nancy's father was one of the most boring people on the planet. How her mother made it through each day was a mystery to Christine.

"Fine," she sighed. "I see your point. But Hopper?"

"It's hard for you to understand. He plays things close to the vest, but…he's relatable. He's had a tough life, and…it's nice to be able to talk to someone about that."

"For you or for him?"

"Both of us, I hope." He squeezed her shoulder gently and gave her another smile. "Just give him a chance. I'm not talking hugs and family dinners, but it'd be nice if we could watch the game without steam coming out your ears and billowing down the hallway."

Christine elbowed him and pushed away from the couch. "Alright. Now I am looking for an excuse to get away from you."

"Go ahead and run. Doubt you'll make it far in that marshmallow coat."

She stuck her tongue out at him and picked up her things. But she paused at the door to look back one last time.

"I worry about you too, you know."

"And I'm better for it," he assured her. "Now get going. You're late as it is."

"Yeah, you're—shit! You're right! Love you, bye!"

Biking to the Byers house was always a workout. The farther Christine strayed from town the more hills there seemed to be. The streets became winding instead of regimented corners, and pavement gave way to gravel. By the time she finally made it up the driveway, her legs were aching, and she was short of breath.

She rang the doorbell and immediately started peeling off the white coat. The stupid thing was entirely too hot.

The door swung open to reveal a very puzzled looking Joyce.

"Hi, uh—oh! Hi, Chrissy…is—is everything alright?"

"Yup!" she said brightly, freeing herself from the coat. She pushed it into Joyce's arms and dove into her backpack. "Just dropping these off for Jonathan."

"Oh, okay. Well, I'm sure he'll be thankful to have something…so…stylish?"

"It's his costume," Christine explained, passing over the accessories. "For tomorrow. It's the Marshmallow Man, the boss monster from—"

"From Ghostbusters, right!" Joyce clapped a hand on her forehead and laughed. "Wow, and you got him to agree to this?"

"Non-negotiable. If he's gonna roll with the party, he's gotta look the part. Just uh, try and hide it from Will. It's supposed to be a surprise."

"Well, I have no idea where I'm gonna hide a coat this big, but I'll certainly try. Let's see, uh…ooh!"

Joyce held up a finger and balled up the coat and hat as tight as she could. She grabbed the laundry basket that was lying next to the couch, picked up a fistful of shirts, and shoved the coat underneath. She pushed it down a couple times, trying to make it flat, but the coat just filled up with air again. The laundry pile rose slowly like a bag of popcorn. Joyce tutted and grabbed one of the decorative pumpkins in the window to drop on top. It did absolutely nothing to solve the problem, but seemed to satisfy her for the time being.

"I'll take care of it," she assured Christine. "So uh, what are you going as tomorrow? Was there a girl marshmallow or…some other ghost?"

"Oh uh…well, I might not—"

She was spared having to answer by a jovial voice down the hall.

"Hang on just a second! Is that my favorite customer I hear?"

Bob emerged from the kitchen, a bowl of popcorn in his hand. He stashed it on the couch and hurried to the door, positively beaming.

"Hi, Bob," Christine chuckled, waving a hand.

"Yeah, I thought that was you! How's that mini component system treating you?"

"Oh, it's incredible! My dad keeps having to remind me to turn it down and stop playing with the controls. I just cannot get over the improvement. I mean, for a twenty-watt system that small? The sound quality is just—"

"So much better!" he joined in. "I know, I know. Hey! Take good care of it, and maybe you can trade it in when the new model comes out with the expanded bandwidth. Radio Shack's got pretty tight restrictions, but I might be able to pull a few strings."

"I will literally guard it with my life," Christine promised.

Joyce was following the conversation with a bemused smile. "And we're talking about…video players…?"

"My new stereo," Christine explained. "It was a birthday gift from my dad."

"But speaking of video," said Bob, "we were just about to sit down and watch a movie. Do you want to join us? I'm sure Jon and Will would be thrilled for the company."

"Oh, no, no, no," said Christine, already backing away from the door. "Thank you! But I've got dinner at the Hollands and I'm already late as it is. But thanks! Have a good night you guys!"

She jumped off the porch and back onto her bike. It was a narrow escape. She wasn't sure which would be more awkward: crashing the Byers family movie night alone, or the dinner party she was barreling towards now.

The Hollands lived in a one-story house that stretched the whole length of their property. When Christine arrived, there were three cars crammed into the driveway: Steve's red BMW, parked behind Mr. Holland's station wagon, and a third tucked away under a heavy brown tarp. Christine tried her best not to look at it, but even out of the corner of her eye, the shape of the Volkswagen Cabriolet was all too familiar. Nausea roiled in her stomach. She could still remember long nights drives she had spent in the backseat, surrounded by take-out bags, screaming along to whatever pop song Barb and Nancy had on the radio…

She hastily parked her bike and jogged up the front walkway. She was going so quickly, she almost didn't notice the sign on the front lawn. When she did, she skidded to a halt on the stoop.

Woodward Real Estate: For Sale

Her nausea surged again, and Christine had to fight to beat it back. Barb was gone. It wasn't her fault.

She rang the doorbell and, a few seconds later, was greeted by Mrs. Holland.

"Christine! Oh, there you are, dear! We were worried."

"I'm so sorry I'm late," said Christine, allowing Mrs. Holland to kiss her on the cheek and usher her into the house. "I had to run an errand and I didn't realize how long it was going to take."

"Not at all, not at all. I was running behind schedule myself. Johnny just got back with the food. Come have a seat."

Mrs. Holland led the way into the dining room, where Steve and Nancy had already settled on one side of the table. Mr. Holland sat across from them, doling out mashed potatoes from a bright bucket of KFC.

"Chrissy!" he cheered as she walked in. "How you doing, sweetheart?"

"I'm good. How are you?"

"Oh, we're getting by. Another week. You know how it is. How's your pops?"

"He's good. A couple bucks short after that football game, but good."

Mr. Holland laughed and began filling her plate. Christine sat down at the end of the table, between Mrs. Holland and Nancy. All too quickly, her eyes were drawn to the chair across from her. It was empty. Painfully noticeable when the rest of them were crammed around the table like this…

Barb was gone. It wasn't her fault.

Nancy grabbed her hand under the table, breaking her trance. She smiled bracingly and mouthed, Thank you.

Christine nodded, trying to clear the lump out of her throat. It was like Mr. Holland had said. This was just another week. Somehow, they'd all get by.

They all tucked into their food, silent except the occasional request to pass the biscuits or gravy, but within five minutes, Steve began to get fidgety. A gentle rattle rang through the room as the plates on the table shook rhythmically. Nancy must've kicked Steve, because he grunted and promptly stopped bouncing his leg. He caught Christine's eye and pulled a funny face. She had to stuff a biscuit into her mouth to hide her smile. She wished he wouldn't make her laugh. It felt wrong, inappropriate in the solemn silence.

"I'm so sorry I didn't get to cook," Mrs. Holland apologized. "I was gonna make that baked ziti you guys like so much, but I just forgot about the time, and before you know it, 'Oh my God, it's five o'clock!'"

"It's fine," Nancy assured her. "It's great!"

"I have no room to talk," Christine chimed in.

"I love KFC," added Steve. He nodded fervently, making his hair bounce. Nancy shot him a sidelong glance and pursed her lips. Her fork twirled between her fingers, and she hesitated before she spoke.

"So, I noticed a for sale sign out in your yard. Is that the neighbors' or…?"

Mr. and Mrs. Holland exchanged a look.

"You wanna tell them?" she asked her husband, with barely contained excitement.

He glanced between Nancy and Christine, deliberating. Then he nodded, and gestured his wife on with his fork. "Go ahead."

Mrs. Holland beamed and placed her silverware aside.

"We hired a man named Murray Bauman. Have you ever heard of him?"

Christine shook her head, joining in with Nancy and Steve's chorus of no's. The lack of recognition didn't deter Mrs. Holland in the slightest.

"He was an investigative journalist for the Chicago Sun-Times."

"He's pretty well-known," added Mr. Holland.

He pulled a business card from his wallet and passed it to Steve, who inspected it with mild interest. He passed it on to Nancy, who accepted it with trembling hands. She simply stared at it, frozen. She did not offer the card to Christine, which was just as well, because Christine did not want to look at it. She didn't want to look at it any more than she wanted to look at the empty chair, or the Volkswagen in the driveway. The nausea was beginning to upset her stomach again, the fried chicken threatening to make a reappearance.

"Anyway," continued Mrs. Holland brightly, "he's freelance now, and he agreed to take the case!"

"Oh, that's—that's great," offered Steve. He turned to Nancy and Christine, checking to make sure that had been the right thing to say. "No, that's really…that's great, right?"

"Well, um…" Christine was floundering. "Yeah, of course, but…"

"But what exactly does that mean?" asked Nancy, putting the card aside.

"It means he's gonna do what that lazy son-of-a-bitch Jim Hop—"

Mrs. Holland cleared her throat, cutting off her husband's tirade. She gave him a pointed look and he took a deep breath.

"Sorry," he continued with controlled breath. "What the…Hawkins police haven't been capable of doing. It means we have a real detective on the case."

"It means," said Mrs. Holland, in a voice shaking with joy, "we're going to find our Barb."

"If anyone can find her, it's this man. He already has leads! By God, he's worth every last penny."

"Wait, how much are you paying him?" asked Christine, quickly followed by Nancy.

"Is that why you're selling the house?"

"Oh, you two don't have to worry about us," said Mrs. Holland. She took her husband's hand and smiled. "We're fine. More than fine! For the first time in a long time, we're hopeful."

Christine's eyes sunk to her plate. The chicken and potatoes almost seemed foreign now. Had she actually been eating just a few minutes ago? Had she ever been hungry at all?

She closed her eyes and took a slow, deep breath. There was nothing she could do. She just had to keep reminding herself: Barb was gone. It wasn't her fault. It wasn't fair. It was bullshit. It was horrifying. But that was that. Unless she wanted to be disappeared by the government, or lose her dad or Dustin the same way she'd lost Eleven, she had to keep her mouth shut. Just like every time someone mentioned Will's disappearance. Just like when Claudia reminded everyone that the Big Buy had been robbed by a little kid. Just like when Mr. Clarke talked about his prize radio going up in flames. Even now, when Barb's parents were selling their house for answers that would never come.

Nancy mumbled an apology and excused herself from the table. She hurried out of the room with her head hung low. Mrs. Holland's smile fell, and she laid a hand on her chest.

"Do you think she's alright?" she asked Christine. "We were just so excited…"

"I'm sure she's fine," Christine managed. "It's just…it's a lot to take in, you know? I know I'm biased, but I can't imagine the neighborhood without the Hollands here."

"We won't be far," Mrs. Holland promised.

"We want to stay close to the investigation," said Mr. Holland.

"And you girls." Her voice was shaking again, this time holding back tears. "Besides, Hawkins…there's just too many memories here. It's such a wonderful community, but…to see all the places Barbara used to be…"

Mr. Holland squeezed her hand. He was fiercely maintaining a brave face. He leaned over, whispering supportive words that only made Mrs. Holland shake more. Christine pursed her lips, wracking her brain. But she couldn't think of anything to say.

"Maybe I should go check—"

"Hey, uh—Chris—Christine!" Steve's voice was too loud for the dining room. "Could you pass me the bucket of chicken? Please?"

His eyes were wide and panicked. The chicken was inconsequential. The pleading, she knew, was real.

She coolly passed him the bucket, and Steve relaxed in his seat. He took his time selecting a piece. Once he'd found the largest one, he tore into it with his hands. He smiled in satisfaction, nodding at the Hollands.

"It really is finger-lickin' good."

Mr. and Mrs. Holland laughed politely. Christine barely suppressed an eye-roll.

"Mrs. Holland?" she asked. "You know, I just remembered I brought a different sweater. I was biking for like, eight miles. Do you mind if I go change really quick?"

"Oh course, dear," she replied with a smile. "You go right ahead. We'll be here."

Christine thanked her and, ignoring Steve's look of utter betrayal, dashed out of the room.

It only took a brief pause outside the bathroom to confirm where Nancy was hiding. Christine could hear her heavy breathing and choked sobs through the door. She wanted to help, but she also knew her friend needed space, so she decided to give it a couple of minutes, just to be polite.

She continued down the hall, pausing again outside the most familiar door in the house. Christine took a steadying breath. It didn't work, but she pushed the door open anyway.

Barb's bedroom was not pretty. It was painted brown, and had an awful orange carpet, but between long commutes and expensive dance classes, her parents had never gotten the time or money to remodel it for her. Barb never complained. She just saw it as an excuse to decorate.

The walls of Barb's room were a collage of memories. There must've been at least a hundred photos—family, friends, landscapes, art. She had pictures of her and Nancy from their first dance class to their last sleepover. Christine appeared halfway through the timeline, a little blonde twig in a flannel that could've been its own dress. Between the photos were posters, some for bands, some for films. Over the desk there was aposter for The Outsiders, which Christine had taken from The Hawk. There were flyers for school concerts, art fairs, a placemat from Rockets Burger Joint. Christine didn't need to turn the lights on to see them. She stood in the center of the room, gazing at each wall and reliving their friendship from beginning to end. Because it did have an end.

Christine had to tear her eyes from the walls. She took another shaky breath and tore into her backpack, looking for her second sweater. Her arms got tangled in her rush to put it on. She flailed and tugged, but by the time she'd finally yanked it over her head, there were tears spilling down her cheeks. She clamped a hand over her mouth and bit the flesh of her palm. Her legs trembled and buckled, and she collapsed onto the end of the bed.

The door creaked open, taking Christine by surprise. She hurriedly wiped at her cheeks, shocked to find how wet they already were. She must've been crying for several minutes.

"Just me," Nancy assured her. Her own voice was still thick. "Guess misery loves company."

"Yeah," Christine choked out. "Yeah, I guess it does."

Nancy joined her inside. Rather than perching next to Christine on the bed, she sat down on the floor. Her arms wove around one of Christine's legs, hugging it to her and resting her chin on top. Together they sat, both sniffling in the dark.

"Did we do this?"

Nancy's voice was so soft, it barely put a dent in the silence, but it was enough to make Christine pause. She wiped her eyes again and rested a hand on Nancy's head.

"What do you mean?"

"This," Nancy repeated. "I just keep thinking…if I hadn't kissed Steve at that stupid party…"

Christine didn't dignify that with an immediate response. She slid off the bed and onto the floor, then grabbed Nancy's hand and forced her to meet her gaze.

"We did not do this," she said in a practiced voice. "This is not our fault."

"But if—"

"But nothing. We don't know what would have happened. Maybe Steve would have asked you out again. Maybe Barb would have cut her hand someplace else. Maybe the Demogorgon would've taken me, or maybe it would have taken someone else. The point is the Demogorgon killed Barb. Not you, or me, or Steve. The Demogorgon is the only one to blame."

"That's not true." Nancy's eyes were still flooded and red. She grabbed Christine's hand with a strength that didn't come from sadness. "All those men…Hawkins Lab. The government opened that portal and they let people die. They let Barb die, and now her family just has to suffer? Without knowing what happened to her? Without knowing if she's alive?"

"I know, Nance."

"And? Doesn't that piss you off?"

"Of course it pisses me off!" Christine insisted. "I hate every bastard that works in that place. But we signed a nondisclosure agreement. There's not really anything we can do."

"There is one thing…"

It took a moment for that to sink in. Christine's hand fell from Nancy's grip, and she turned to look at her in horror. "You've got to be joking."

"Chris, they're selling their house!"

"I cannot believe this. Please tell me you're joking."

"Well, why not? We outsmarted them last year!"

"We got lucky last year," Christine corrected, "and we lost Barb anyway. And Eleven. I don't want you to be the next person to disappear."

"They couldn't do that," said Nancy with amazing confidence. "After last year? It'd be too suspicious. People would look for us."

"Oh, like John and Marsha are looking for Barb?" Christine demanded. "Like we all looked for Will before we found his fake body in the lake?"

"And then we kept looking until we found him!"

Christine squeezed her eyes closed. They were being too loud. Nancy might've been certifiably insane, but they had to keep their conversation under control. She took a slow breath and fixed Nancy with a grave expression.

"Nancy, this wouldn't be anything like last year. Last time, they didn't even know we were onto them. Now they know who we are. They know where we live and who we spend time with. The moment they think something's going on, they're going to trace it straight back to us. And they're not gonna kidnap us, alright? They don't need us. And we all know what Hawkins Lab does to people they don't need."

"What do you mean?" asked Nancy. "What, like they'll kill us?"

"Yeah," Christine answered flatly. "They'll kill us. Don't you remember that guy from the burger joint last year? The suicide that came out of left field right after Will disappeared? That'll be us. Two girls that crashed their car on a road trip. Case closed."

Christine hugged her knees to her chest. It wasn't the first time she'd thought about it. Even a year later, the nondisclosure agreements just seemed so absurd. What good was that to the government? A dozen people who knew the truth, sworn to secrecy by a piece of paper? It was only a matter of time before something else happened, before something got out. The government had to know that. No, the paperwork wouldn't hold forever. Just long enough for Hawkins Lab to pick them off one by one, in a way that wouldn't raise suspicion.

She knew that sounded crazy. She also knew that she had every right to be a little paranoid. And if her days were numbered—if the government was going to take her out some day down the line—she wasn't planning on tempting them by acting out.

Even after Christine's depressing speech, Nancy was shaking her head.

"They'd never get away with it," she said. "Hopper wouldn't let them."

Christine let out a derisive laugh, one that was entirely too loud for their situation. Nancy frowned in disapproval.

"Look, I know that you don't like how much time he's spending with your dad, but that doesn't change the fact that—"

"No," Christine cut her off, "you don't get it. You just—you don't get it!"

"Then explain it to me."

Nancy's voice was surprisingly steady, earnest where she easily could have been dismissive. Christine wasn't having as much luck containing herself. Her thumb tapped anxiously against her kneecap, and when that didn't help, she got to her feet. Her anxious legs carried her around the room, pacing the ugly, orange carpet. She didn't want to have this conversation. It'd already been a whole year. On the other hand, it had already been a whole year. It was only a matter of time before it got out, wasn't it? How long could she expect to put it off?

She folded her arms over her chest and turned sharply to Nancy.

"This stays between us, okay?"

"Okay," Nancy agreed warily.

Christine nodded. It took another few seconds for her to force the words out.

"Hopper's working for the lab."

"Christine, that's not—"

"He is. I don't know how long. I don't think he was lying about breaking in last year, but he made a deal with them to get Will back. He handed them Eleven and he's been working with them ever since."

"But…no." Nancy was actually smiling in disbelief. "I mean, this is Hopper we're talking about. Grumpy, paranoid Hopper. After everything that happened, he'd never—"

"Trust them?" Christine finished. "Like Joyce has to trust the doctors and scientists when she brings Will in every month? Yeah, well…that doesn't seem to be an issue for him."

She huffed and slumped down next to Nancy again. Nancy was still staring at the carpet, the puzzle pieces clicking slowly into place. The smile was slowly fading from her face.

"Think about it," said Christine. "Would the government really just let Hopper and Joyce stroll on in and walk through their portal? How do you think they found the kids at the middle school?"

"I don't know," Nancy sighed. "I guess I thought one of them made a call, or set off some kind of alarm—"

"No way. We kept Eleven safe all week. The kids knew not to do anything stupid. The only reason they found her is because Hopper gave her up. And we were all so busy being thankful that Will was alive that no one said anything. No one said a goddamn thing…"

"Are you sure?" Nancy asked softly.

Christine nodded. "He came to The Hawk a few weeks later, when I got my sling off. Confessed the moment I confronted him."

"Seriously?" Nancy's jaw dropped. "Christine! You should have said something!"

"Ha, right. Hopper uh…strongly encouraged me not to tell anyone. He made it very clear that there would be consequences if I acted out. Of course, he doesn't trust me either. Which I assume is part of the reason he's come to every Saturday matinee since last November, even when we don't have anything new. Then in January he started talking to my dad, and now I see him every Monday when he comes to my house to watch football. So he can remind me that I'm being watched and check if I'm hiding Eleven under my bed."

Once again, Christine's hands balled up into fists into her lap. She dug her fingernails into the flesh of her palms, trying to ground herself. She was sure she was going to have scars soon. Ever since November, she'd been so angry. Angry at Hopper, at the scientists, at the government. And there was nothing she could do about it. She just had to keep pretending this was normal.

Nancy grabbed her hand, pried her fingers apart, and laced them through her own.

"Chris, I'm so sorry."

"It's not your fault," Christine grumbled. "If I hadn't said anything to him—"

"No," Nancy interrupted fiercely. "No, if you say nothing, nothing changes. I'm glad you stood up to him. Now he knows he didn't get away with it."

"Nance, they already got away with it."

"No. I can't accept that. There…there has to be something we could do…"

Christine smiled joylessly.

"That's what I love about you. You're so goddamn stubborn. And I want to be with you, I do, but…I can't. I've had Hopper breathing down my neck for ten months, and I just…I can't risk it. If something happens to me…I can't leave my dad alone."

Nancy nodded in understanding. She squeezed Christine's hand and slouched a little lower against the bed, just low enough that she could rest her head on Christine's shoulder. They sat like that for a few minutes, staring down at the ugly, orange carpet and wishing there was something they could do to change it all.

"What do you think's going on out there?" Christine asked finally.

"Out where?"

"The dining room. You think Steve's killed himself yet?"

"Oh my God," Nancy laughed, wiping her eyes and sitting up once more. "That's right. I can't believe you left him out there alone."

"Hey, I came looking for you. You left first."

"Yeah, I guess we should go save him."

She helped Christine to her feet. They took a moment to prepare themselves, to put their normal faces back on and bury their private thoughts once more. Then they nodded to each other, linked their hands, and walked back to the dining room.