Saturdays at The Hawk were still brutal.
Things had gotten marginally easier over the last year. Christine's broken leg had prompted Anthony to bring some new hires onto the team. At least next time one of them got injured, they wouldn't be so comically understaffed.
New employees meant Christine got two things: seniority and underlings.
Seniority came in the form of an extra dollar per hour, something she was over the moon about. She loved her bike, but life would be a lot easier after she bought herself a car. The downside to seniority was wearing her old uniform while the new kids got polo shirts. Anthony thought the button down and bowtie made her look more managerial; Christine thought it made it harder for anyone to take her seriously.
The underlings were both a blessing and a curse. They were a pain to train, overly chatty, and she was seriously going to lose her mind if she had to teach one more freshman how to make change. On the other hand, she now had the power to delegate tasks—which essentially meant forcing the newbies to sweep and take out the trash while Christine manned the register. She liked bossing them around, but she didn't trust them to actually do anything right, which meant constantly checking their work; it was a vicious cycle.
The past few weekends, The Hawk had been packed, and the crowds weren't thinning out. Christine wasn't exactly surprised, but she was a little bit annoyed. They wouldn't be getting a new film for another week, and it seemed like everyone in town had seen their current movie twice. Frankly, she didn't get the appeal. She didn't think Terminator was all that great.
This Saturday morning, Christine was in a particularly bad mood. She was working a double shift, and that was after she'd stayed until close last night. Closing was grueling work, and it always ran later than scheduled on Fridays. It had been well past midnight before she left, at which point she'd biked home in the cold to an empty house. Her father was gone, and for the first time in years, Nancy and Barb weren't coming to spend the night. This time, she was alone.
She'd been too tired to do anything but shower and pass out. It wasn't until she woke up with a splitting headache that she'd realized she had skipped dinner. She'd been planning to make a big breakfast, but then Claudia had come banging on the front door looking like she was on the verge of tears. She'd sobbed about how their cat, Mews, had been missing since yesterday and they couldn't find her anywhere. Christine was baffled because, frankly, Mews was so lazy it was hard to imagine her venturing out of the house, let alone off the property. But Claudia had been so distressed that Christine had forfeited her breakfast time to help her look for her cat.
By the time they'd cleared the Hendersons' yard, the Walcotts' yard, the woods behind their houses, and the rest of Dover Avenue, Christine had needed to bolt so she wouldn't be late for her shift. She crammed two Pop Tarts in her mouth on her way out the door, biking with one hand and weaving through Main Street traffic. She made it to work on time, only to find out that the two coworkers she was meant to open with were both running late. With the early matinee crowd lingering on the sidewalk, peering in the windows and knocking incessantly to see when they might be able to come in, she'd had to scramble to get everything ready by herself.
Christine was perfectly capable of doing the work, but she still chewed out the freshman when they showed up.
Since then, it had been a comedy of errors. One of the toilets overflowed. Jake jammed the projector and nearly ruined a spool of film. They ran out of M&Ms in the middle of a rush. Maggie counted out the wrong change and left the drawer five dollars short. It made the shift move fast, but Christine was ready to pull her hair out.
The crowd in the lobby died down before the second matinee. Christine took advantage of the lull to push Maggie out of the way and open the register. It was going to take a lot of number juggling to figure out where they'd screwed up, but she needed to fix the drawer before the next rush. She was halfway through counting it out when the theater doors snapped shut.
"Hey, don't close them too early," she instructed Jake, not looking up from her work. "Doors aren't until five minutes to showtime."
"Uh, yeah. It's five minutes to showtime."
"What? No it's—"
Christine looked up at the clock. It was, in fact, five minutes to showtime. She hadn't even realized it had gotten so late—partially because she'd been busy, and partially because there was something missing. She looked around in confusion.
"Where's Hopper?"
"Chief Hopper?" Jake repeated, raising his eyebrows. "Um…the station?"
"No, he's not," Christine snapped. "He always comes to the matinee. He's come to the matinee every weekend for eleven months, so where the hell is he?"
Jake and Maggie exchanged dubious looks.
"Is this a trick question?" Maggie asked nervously. "This feels like a trick question."
"No! It's not a trick—never mind." Christine screwed up her face in frustration, but forced herself to take a deep breath. "Okay. Maggie, you're on projector duty. Jake, you're at the counter. Finish counting the drawer and I'll be right—no, you know what? Don't touch the drawer. Just watch it until I get back."
She threw her hands up as she sped toward the back office. She didn't have time for this.
It wasn't like she wanted to see Hopper, but his absence was deeply disconcerting. He'd been at The Hawk like clockwork every single Saturday, no matter what the movie was, no matter how many times he'd seen it. He'd watch Christine with sharp eyes while she processed his ticket, sometimes make a gruff comment about her dad or her friends. It was like he got off on making sure that she knew she was being watched. It annoyed the hell out of her, and most days she wanted nothing more than to reach over the counter and punch him in his stupid, grumpy face—but if Hopper wasn't here, that meant there was something more important going on.
What could be more important than his surveillance work for the lab?
Christine let herself into the office and made a beeline for the desk. She snatched up the phone and dialed the phone number as quickly as she could.
"Hawkins Police Department. This is Flo speaking. How may I direct your call?"
"Is Chief Hopper there?" Christine demanded without pretense.
"No," she replied in a bored tone. "He's currently out of office."
"Is he actually out of office or is he sitting in his office refusing calls?"
Flo paused, momentarily caught off guard. She scoffed in annoyance before asking, "Does it matter? Either way, he's not gonna talk to ya."
Christine banged the handset against her forehead. She'd never had the pleasure of meeting Flo, but she certainly wasn't any help. Thinking fast, Christine redirected.
"I'm not thrilled about talking to him either," she sighed, as bitterly as she could. "My name's Christine Walcott. My dad's out of town, and I'm supposed to check in with the chief every day to make sure I'm not…I don't know, dead or whatever."
"Seriously?" Flo snorted. "Hop's babysitting now?"
"Yeah, hilarious. If he's there, can you please just patch me through so my dad doesn't go postal?"
"Sorry, kid. He's really not in. Best I can do is leave a note saying you called."
Christine hesitated. She knew Hopper must be up to something, but did she want him to know she knew he was up to something? Last time she'd called him out, she'd ended up on surveillance for a year. On the other hand, he had to know her well enough by now, at least enough to know she was smart, angry, and annoying. It wouldn't surprise him when she started asking questions, even if he didn't want to answer them.
"Yeah," Christine agreed. "Ask him to call me when he gets in."
She gave Flo her information, ended the call, and tried to put it out of her mind, but…it wasn't exactly a viable option. The first thing she did after fixing the drawer was to grab her flashlight and do a round inside the theater. Christine couldn't imagine Hopper slipping in without stopping to annoy her, but she wanted to make sure. When she didn't see him, she spent the rest of the movie stewing and, when it let out, double checked every patron for scruff or a badge. Still, Hopper was nowhere to be found.
It was getting hard to breathe again. Christine had to step out into the alley under the pretense of taking out the trash. She sagged against the building, focusing on the chilly air, the feel of the bricks against her back. Hopper being gone didn't have to be bad. He could be at the lab with Joyce and Will. He could be reporting to a crime scene, one that was entirely unrelated to alternate dimensions and man-eating monsters. Maybe this time he'd broken his leg and just couldn't come in. Not that Christine was hoping for that, but…still…it would be better than finding out Hawkins Lab had captured Eleven.
She spent the rest of her shift talking herself off the edge of another panic attack; by the time she clocked out, she was exhausted. Still, she turned on her Walkman, hopped on her bike, and pedaled home as fast as she could. Tonight, she would sit right next to the phone, and she wasn't going to move until she got some damn answers.
The physical activity helped with her looming anxiety, but It was a relief to get out of her sweaty uniform when she got home. After changing into a pair of sweats and a striped T-shirt, Christine dragged her backpack and all of her books down the hall. She resisted the temptation to stop in the living room, where she could get comfortable on the couch and listen to her music while she worked, and instead continued to the dining room. With her papers spread out over the dining room table, she could chip away at her homework while keeping one eye on the phone. If it rang, she would be ready.
There was only one problem: Christine was so focused on the phone that she couldn't focus on her work. Even as she glared down at her textbook, she was waiting to hear a ring, and every second she didn't, she got more anxious.
She took a break once or twice. She called the Byers' on a whim, unsurprised when no one picked up the phone. She called the Wheelers, but the line was busy. So she called the station again. She even called the Hendersons, just to see if they'd found their cat. No one was around to answer.
Outside, the sky faded to dusk. Christine had only gotten a fraction of her work done, but she was about ready to give up. She'd eat dinner and then swing by the Wheelers' house. She could make sure everyone was alive and breathing, check on Nancy, and ask Mike if he had any updates about Will.
She was just picking up the phone to order pizza when the doorbell rang.
Christine dropped the phone and sprinted to the front door. She was expecting Hopper, glowering and grumbling with a lecture about being nosy. Maybe if she was really lucky he'd have backup from the lab, ready to sweep her off into the night and never to be seen again. Fleetingly, she imagined Eleven, covered head to toe in dirt and slime, bloodied and shaking like a leaf. What she hadn't expected was…
"Steve?"
He jumped to attention on the stoop, looking as surprised as she felt, even though he was the one who'd rung the bell. He looked casual enough, with his lightweight jacket and fitted jeans, but his hair was remarkably poofy, as if he'd spent more time on it than usual. It was easy to smell his strong cologne and, more alarming than anything, he was holding a bouquet of roses.
"Hey, Chrissy," he said with a nervous smile. "What's up?"
"Um…nothing. I was just gonna…grab dinner." She eyed the flowers with concern. "What's up with you?"
"Nothing." He shook his head, shrugged, then shook his head again. "That was dumb, uh…look, can I talk to Nancy?"
"…What?"
"I know she still doesn't want to see me," he continued, "and I get it. I was being a dick. She was reeling, and piecing things together, and I should've given her the time she asked for instead of pushing for answers. And—and that's not what this is! I'm not trying to force her into anything—"
"Steve, I don't know—"
"No, hold on, seriously. Last year was scary for me, but it wasn't even close to being as scary as it was for the two of you. With Barb…I get why she feels guilty. Shit, sometimes I feel guilty. Like—if I hadn't been such an asshole at Jenny Fischer's party, maybe none of this ever would have happened. You two wouldn't have been fighting, and Barb wouldn't have gotten hurt."
"Seriously, Steve—"
"Sorry, that's not the point. I'm not trying to make this about me. I'm just trying to say that…I get that she's upset, and if she needs time, she can have it. If she needs to talk, I will, and if she doesn't want to see me again, I'll leave…like…after I tell her all that."
He tapped the bouquet of roses against his palm with a grimace. His knee was bouncing rapidly, a familiar nervous tick; he was nervous, but determined, eager to prove himself. It broke Christine's heart.
"Steve…Nancy's not here."
He rolled his eyes and waved the flowers at her. "Okay, I know she doesn't want to see me, but you don't have to cover for her. I already went by her place. I know she's here."
"Why would she be here?"
"For your sleepover thing. Mr. Wheeler said she always stays over when you dad goes away, and you said he left yesterday."
"He did," Christine agreed, "but Nancy said that she didn't feel up to coming."
"Oh." Steve blinked at her. "But…if she's not here, and she's not at home, then…where the hell is she?"
"I…I don't know…"
Steve's face fell, along with the roses that hung limply at his side. Christine knew she should say something, but she had no idea where to start. She didn't want to say the wrong thing and push him over the edge, but was there a right thing to say in this situation?
"God," Steve sighed. He smiled, the same, dangerously bitter smile he'd had on Halloween. "You've gotta be shitting me. You gotta—ha!"
He pushed right past her, storming into the house without invitation. Christine hurriedly closed the door and scurried after him into the living room.
"Steve, hold on—"
"No!" He rounded on her, waving the roses wildly. "No, don't tell me to hold on! Thursday, I held on. Friday, I held on. Today? Today, I'm done. I'm done, Christine! And Nancy's clearly done with me!"
"You don't know that."
"Yeah, you're right! Because she lied to me! She's been lying to me for months, apparently, and now she's lying to her parents, and now she's lying to you! So don't tell me to hold on! Aren't you pissed?!"
"No," Christine said evenly. "I'm not pissed. I'm worried."
"Wo—you're worried?! She lied to you, and now you're worried?!"
"Yeah, Steve! Because Nancy wouldn't lie if she didn't have a good reason."
"Oh, I bet she has a reason," he barked with a laugh. "Yeah, I bet Byers gave her a great reason."
"Stop it, Steve. You don't have any proof she's with Jonathan. Do I need to remind you what happened last time you thought Nancy was cheating on you?"
Steve clamped his mouth shut. It was a low blow, but that day had been a low point for both of them. Christine wasn't about to make the same mistake twice.
She walked over to Steve, prying the roses from his hand and gently placing them on the end table. She weighed her words as she turned back to him.
"I think something might've happened. Not just because of Nancy," she added, before he could interrupt. "You're right. It's weird that Nancy's missing, it's weird that Jonathan's missing, and today I went to work and realized that Hopper's missing too."
"Hopper?" Steve repeated skeptically. "The chief of police is just…missing?"
"I don't know. He comes to The Hawk every Saturday just to bug me, and now that my dad's away, he's supposed to be keeping an eye on me, only I haven't heard from him once. Normally he'd be gloating and rubbing it in my face that he's in charge, but he's just…nowhere. He's not at the station, and I can't get anyone on the phone."
Christine wrung her hands as the anxiety began prickling in her fingers. Steve watched her with a scowl; he seemed more annoyed by the idea than concerned. Still, he lowered his voice when he replied.
"If this had anything to do with last year, why wouldn't Nancy just tell you?"
"I don't know yet," Christine admitted, "but can we agree to slow down and figure it out? Please?"
Steve shook his head again—his jaw clenched tight, arms folded over his chest, eyebrows arched high. He didn't say anything, but Christine recognized it as a grudging concession.
"Thank you."
"Yeah," he said testily. "What are we supposed to do now?"
"I'll try to get ahold of the kids on the radio. But first, I haven't eaten since eight, so I'm gonna order pizza. Would you like any?"
Steve glared at her and rolled his shoulders. "…Yeah."
"Alright then." Christine beckoned for him to follow her into the kitchen. "Sorry, it's kinda a mess."
"I see that," he commented dryly, nodding to the paper-strewn dining table. "Looks like you were busy."
"Ha, busy, but not productive. Honestly, you can just shove everything back in my bag. Clearly I'm not getting my homework done tonight."
She'd been in such a rush to answer the door that she'd dropped the phone entirely, leaving it dangling by the cord from the wall. She picked it up and jiggled the hook a few times before dialing, not bothering to look at a menu or check the number. Christine and her father ordered takeout so often she had almost every restaurant's phone number memorized at this point.
"Pizza should be here in thirty," she announced as she ended the call. She dropped the phone back on the hook and headed to the fridge to grab a drink. "God, they must be slammed. Thirty minutes for delivery in Hawkins. You want a Coke?"
"In case you change your mind…"
"Change my mind about what?"
Christine turned back to the counter and stopped dead.
Steve had obediently begun clearing off the dining room table. Most of her schoolbooks had been pushed to the side, her notebooks closed, her worksheets stacked. Her backpack was still lying on the tabletop, paper pouring out of it from where she'd dropped it carelessly on its side. But Steve wasn't holding a worksheet or a ditto. He was holding a small square note, crumpled from being stuffed into her bag—Billy's note.
She sighed and kicked the fridge shut. "Guess that's a no on the Coke, then."
"Tell me this isn't what I think it is."
Christine raised her eyebrows in surprise. Steve's voice was dangerously low. When she didn't answer him, he looked up from the note, smiling just as bitterly as he had on her doorstep.
"Tell me you're joking. You're not actually buying this crap, are you?"
"What are you talking about?"
"Billy! His whole—whole carefree, charming, bad boy act. You've gotta know he's full of shit."
"Yeah, I got that. Thanks so much, Steve."
She rolled her eyes and cracked open her can of soda. This was precisely why she hadn't wanted Steve to know about Billy. She didn't need a lecture about falling for the bad boy. Christine was well aware that it was a bad idea, and was acting accordingly, which meant she was not acting on it, and if she did decide to act on it, that was her decision. She was perfectly capable of making her own judgement calls without male supervision.
"Did you go?"
Christine almost choked on her soda. She coughed, then spluttered, "Excuse me?"
"I wanna know." Steve was watching her with a dead even look, still clenching the note in his hand. "Did you go?"
"Why the hell does it matter?" she snapped at him.
"It matters because he's an asshole!" Steve shouted back. "Seriously, Christine, the guy's bad news. You shouldn't be getting involved with him."
"I'm not involved with him. It's just a stupid note."
"So you didn't go?"
"No," she growled. "Not that it's any of your business, but no. I didn't go."
"Then why'd you keep it?"
Christine stumbled over her snappy response. She didn't know why she'd kept Billy's note. She hadn't put that much thought into it. It wasn't like she was planning on randomly swinging by to sleep with him, but did the alternative have to be throwing it straight in the trash? More importantly, she didn't need a reason to keep it. She didn't need to explain herself to anyone else because she wasn't a child. Steve, Dustin, her father—honestly, she was getting real sick of being asked to justify her emotions.
Steve chuckled darkly, tossing the note down on the table. "Wow. How can someone so smart be so stupid?"
"Fuck you, Steve," Christine spat. "I know you're pissed at Nancy, but you don't get to take it out on me."
"You know what? I am pissed! I'm pissed because my girlfriend doesn't love me, and I'm pissed because my best friend is in love with some grade-A asshole who thinks he's James Dean!"
"Oh my God!" She threw her head back in a derisive laugh. "Are you listening to yourself? It's a scrap of paper some guy put in my locker! I'm not in love with him!"
"Right. I saw you guys talking outside the gym and, trust me, I sure as hell know that look."
Instantly, the laughter died in her throat. The smile dropped from her face as the room went deadly quiet. Christine was so stunned, it was a wonder she was still standing. Slowly, she walked around the kitchen island so she could face him head on.
"What is that supposed to mean, Steve?"
She didn't need to ask. She knew exactly what he'd meant, and judging by the hesitation in Steve's eyes, he knew exactly how much it was going to hurt. He balled his hands into fists at his sides, grinding each word out carefully.
"I'm just saying. You could do a lot better than some douchebag who treats girls like tally marks."
"Right," said Christine, mimicking him. "Well, you'd know all about that, wouldn't you?"
"Hey, I was not like that. I was never like that!"
"Oh, come on! I can't even count the number of girls you've hooked up with at school. You practically live at Skull Rock. Everyone's always talking about Big Ladies' Man, King Steve—and you don't get a reputation like that without something to back it up."
"That's exactly my point!" Steve shouted, taking a few steps forward. "Billy's been on my ass ever since he got here, always talking about this stupid King title! He wants to prove that he's the big man on campus now, the Keg King, the Ladies' Man, the new King Steve! That's why he's doing all this, okay?! That's the only reason he's so interested in you! Because he's trying to piss me off!"
For a few seconds, there was silence. Steve was breathing hard after his tirade and Christine stood across from him at a complete loss for words. She tried a few times; she opened her mouth, attempted a few simple sentences, but nothing came out. She licked her lips, swallowed hard, and walked out of the room.
Now—now Steve finally seemed to realize that he'd crossed a line. He scrambled after her into the living room, cursing under his breath.
"Chris, hang on. That—that came out wrong."
"Okay."
"Seriously! I'm sorry. You know that's not what I meant."
"I know exactly what you meant, Steve!"
Christine whirled around on the spot, shoving him back a few paces. She was rapidly losing control. Her brain was working so hard on the words that she didn't spare a thought for how loud she was shouting or the way her voice shook.
"I get the picture, okay? Billy doesn't care about me. Billy only cares about you. Everyone only cares about you, because this town—this whole world revolves around Steve Fucking Harrington!"
"Chris—"
"You're a self-centered asshole, you know that?"
"I—that's—I deserve that—"
"You're a complete—utter douchebag who still, after everything, thinks he's better than the rest of us!"
"Wait, I don't—I—"
"Of course Billy only cares because I'm friends with you! Ha! You know, I really should have seen it sooner! Stupid, stupid Christine! He's pretending to like you! Because no one could ever like Christine! I mean that—that's absurd—"
"Hello?! Chrissy?!"
"—no, no, no! Everyone knows about Christine Walcott! Brainy weirdo, science geek, Psycho Bitch! No, she's not a real person! She's just Steve Harrington's lap dog!"
"HEY! HELLO IN THERE! OPEN THE DOOR!"
Christine let out a strangled scream and stormed to the front door. She wrenched it open with such force that it collided with the wall, shaking the picture frames that hung there.
"WHAT?!"
"Finally!" Dustin glowered at her and shoved his radio in her face. "Where the hell have you been?! I've been calling you for hours!"
"Dustin, I swear to God—"
"We bought you the radio for a reason, you know! What's the point of having it if you're not gonna keep it on for emergencies?!"
"Dustin, stop," Christine ground out through clenched teeth. "It's not a good time."
"Oh, really?" He laughed sarcastically and slapped his knee. "Ha! In that case—my mistake—NO! Are you even listening to me, Christine?! E-mer-gen-cy! I have a CODE RED!"
"What?" That actually got through to her for a moment. "What do you mean 'code red'? Seriously?"
"Yes, seriously! I mean code red as in danger! Code red as in life or death! Code red as in where's your freaking shotgun?!" He pushed past her and stormed into the house. "Seriously, you're gonna need the shotgun. Do you still…?"
Dustin's sentence trailed off as he came to a standstill in the middle of the living room. Steve was still next to the couch, hands on his hips and lips pressed into a tight line. Dustin looked from him to Christine, back to Steve, then down to the roses that were lying on the table.
"Are those for Chrissy?"
"What?" Steve squinted down at him. "No, they're for Nancy."
"Nancy doesn't live here."
"Yeah, I know that, dipshit."
"Why are you bringing roses for Nancy to Christine's house?"
"Dustin," Christine sighed, "it's really not a good time."
Dustin's eyes narrowed. They did one more circuit around the room before closing, and Dustin shook his head.
"I don't wanna know. We've got bigger problems than your love lives. Is the shotgun still in the garage?"
He promptly marched through the kitchen to the side door. Christine glowered at Steve one final time before trudging after Dustin.
"Why do you need the shotgun?"
"I don't need the shotgun. You need the shotgun."
He was rummaging in the boxes under Christine's workbench, which was littered with parts and pieces from Radio Shack. She batted him aside, hopping up on the bench so she could reach the shelf up on the wall. She grabbed a box of shotgun shells and passed them down, then jumped to the ground so she could retrieve the shotgun from its locked cabinet.
"Why does anyone need a shotgun?" asked Steve from the doorway.
"So we don't die, asshole," Dustin snapped at him.
Steve gaped at him. "We—hey! Watch it, shithead!"
"Dustin," Christine interrupted. "Use your words."
He rolled his eyes, but with a laborious sigh, launched into a rushed explanation.
"I found a pollywog on Halloween, and I kept it because it was hiding in my trash, and he was super cute and super smart, and I gave him some of my Three Musketeers bar and he loved it, so I named him D'Artagnan. Only then I couldn't figure out what kind of pollywog he was, so I got a bunch of books and I did a bunch of research and decided the he couldn't be a pollywog, but I didn't know what he could be either, which I figured meant he was a new species. So I brought him to school to show to the party, only then he escaped because he was growing like crazy and all of a sudden he was like twice the size and had two more legs—it was nuts! And I found him but I didn't want anyone to know, so I took him home and I put him in Yertle the Turtle's tank, but then I came home from school yesterday and realized that D'Artagnan broke out of the tank and ate Mews, and now I realize he kind of looks like a baby Demogorgon, so I lured him out of the house with some bologna and trapped him in the cellar, but I don't know what to do with him and no one's been answering my calls so I need your help."
Dustin raised his eyebrows expectantly, waiting for a response. Christine stared at him, unable to form a response while her brain was still working. She understood what he'd said. Right now, her body was still deciding if it wanted to faint in fear or launch forward and throttle Dustin for being a well-meaning, irresponsible, life-threatening idiot. He didn't apologize or grovel for forgiveness. He didn't even have the decency to look abashed.
Steve recovered first.
"…Wait, what?"
"Are you kidding me?" Dustin glowered at him. "Weren't you listening?"
"Yeah, I was listening. I just have no idea what you said."
"Wow. You really are an idiot."
"Hey! Listen, twerp—"
"Fuck," Christine groaned, pressing a hand to her head. "You are so beyond grounded."
"Wait, what?" Dustin gasped. "You're not my mom! You can't ground me!"
"Watch me, Henderson."
She turned back to the cabinet, opening the lock and pulling the shotgun down from the rack. It hadn't gotten much use since last November, but Christine had taken it out every now and then to clean it and do a little target practice. She gave it a quick onceover, inspecting the safety and the action release, then gave the forearm a sharp pump.
"Okay." Christine hoisted the gun on her shoulder and glared at Dustin. "Start again. Slower."