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"Harden My Heart"

I'm gonna harden my heart

I'm gonna swallow my tears

I'm gonna turn and leave you here

- Quarterflash

After the phone call, Joyce and Jonathan drove into town to the police station. With the phone fried, there was no other way to report what had happened. Hopper's secretary assured them she would give him the message, and he would come out as soon as he could, and it was clear that was the best she was going to do. Whether it was the best she could do, Joyce doubted, but she let Jonathan take her home. Despite all of his encouragement, she couldn't settle down. She tried to sleep a little on the couch while waiting for Hopper to come, but how could she when all she could think of was Will out there somewhere, scared, with who knew what kind of terrible things happening to him?

The morning was a relief, because then at least she could do something. The posters. The posters would help, because someone would see Will, because you couldn't keep a little boy locked up. You had to let him out eventually. She clung to that idea, even as Jonathan moved around the kitchen making her breakfast and putting the plate in front of her. She wanted to eat, for his sake, and because she knew she needed to keep up her strength, but she couldn't. The sight, the smell … It was too much. She reached for another cigarette, and then she and Jonathan both jumped at the sharp rap on the door.

Hopper was exhausted, and discouraged. There had been no sign of the boy. Whatever had happened to him, he was just … gone. And the longer he was gone, the worse the results would be. And now he had to deal with Joyce, and tell her he had nothing to tell her, and hear some story about a phone call that sounded unbelievable, when all he really wanted to do was go home, pop a beer and some pills, and try to shut the world away.

"We've been waiting six hours!" she said as soon as the door opened.

He sighed. "I know. I came as soon as I could."

"Six hours."

What did she think he had been doing all this time, sleeping like a baby? "Little bit of trust here, all right? We've been searching all night. Went all the way to Cartersville."

"And?" From the stricken look on her face, she knew what the answer would be.

"Nothing."

She gave a little sob and turned away, her hand over her mouth. Behind her, the older boy, Jonathan, stood, stolid and unresponsive.

Joyce, feeling helpless and frantic, was on the edge of losing her control entirely when Hopper said, quietly, "Flo says you got a phone call?"

Yes. This was something she could do. She could tell Hopper and they could, what, trace the call? That was a thing police did, right? "Yeah." She led him to the phone, watching as he picked up the receiver, scorched and blackened.

"Storm barbecued this pretty good."

"Storm?"

"What else?"

Couldn't he see that something strange had happened here? Why would a storm have fried her phone while she was listening to Will cry? Why not at some other random time? She gestured to the phone, wanting him to look again, to see something—anything. "You're saying that that's not … weird?"

"Yeah, it's weird." He hung the handset back up without another look at it.

Jonathan suggested, "Can we, like, trace who made the call, contact—"

"No, it doesn't work like that."

At another time, Joyce would have felt for Hopper, who was obviously tired and worried. But this was her boy out there, and what did it matter how tired they were if they couldn't find him?

Hopper took a deep breath, leaning against the wall, and looked at her sideways. "Now, uh, you're sure it was Will? Because Flo said you just heard some breathing."

"No!" He had to believe her. He had to. If Hopper didn't believe her, who would? "It was him," she said stubbornly. "It was Will. And—he was scared, and then something just—" She was trying not to cry, but she couldn't help remembering how terrified he had sounded and how much she had wanted to reach through the phone line and pull him back to her.

"Probably just a prank call, or somebody trying to scare you." Hopper could see her unraveling, and he would have liked to have whoever the prankster was in front of him right now so he could make the asshole see the error of his ways. He wished he could reach out, reassure her, at least let her know she wasn't alone. But he knew if he broke, if he let her see how much he hurt for her, she would come to pieces altogether. He had to stay calm for both their sakes.

"Who would do that?" Jonathan asked him.

"These things get on TV, brings out all the crazies, you know, false leads, prank calls …"

"No. Hopper. It was not a prank. It was him."

She was sure of it, because she wanted to believe, and he didn't want to burst her bubble or destroy her hope, but he needed her at full strength, and calm, and in her right mind. "Joyce."

"Come on, how about a little trust here? What, you think I'm—I'm making this up?"

"I'm not saying that you're making it up. All I'm saying is it's an emotional time for you." He remembered some of the crazy things he had thought after Sara—he had hoped against hope that he had dreamed it all, imagined it, that she was still out there somewhere, because he couldn't bear to give her up.

"You think I don't know my own son's breathing?" Joyce demanded. "Wouldn't you know your own daughter's?" She saw the words land, the wince of pain he couldn't hide, and wished she could take the words back.

They stared at each other for a moment, Joyce desperate and apologetic and anguished, and Hopper hurt and angry and trying to stay calm.

He wasn't going to win against the pain, the tears coming to his eyes, remembering the way Sara's breathing had been at the end, how heavy and short her breath had come. Yes, he would know that if he heard it again. He would never forget it. Trying not to hear it as he went about his daily life took everything he had.

Hopper turned away, moving off until he could get himself under control. Joyce was crying behind him, a reminder that she was in the middle of what he had already gone through, the terror and the anguish and the desperate need to do something, and she needed his help, and that allowed him to push through the pain, to stop thinking like a grieving father or an old friend and to start thinking like a cop again.

"You hear from Lonnie yet?" It was the question he needed to ask, but it was also the question that got under Joyce's skin the quickest, especially coming from him, and he felt an admittedly mean-spirited sense of vengeance when her crying stopped and she snapped a "no" back at him.

"It's been long enough," he said, jamming his hat on his head and turning toward the door. "I'm having him checked out."

"Aw, come on!" Joyce shouted after him. "You're wasting your time!"

He ignored her, wishing he had the strength to stay and try to get through to her but knowing he was too close to the edge to try. It was what he had to do, she had to know that—the parent was so often the culprit in these situations, he wouldn't be doing his job if he took Joyce's word for it that Lonnie wasn't involved.

Sure of that as his course, he headed for his car. Behind him, the door closed and Jonathan called out to him.

"Hopper. Let me go."

Rolling his eyes—couldn't they just let him do his job?—Hopper turned to the kid. "I'm sorry?"

"To Lonnie's. You know, if Will's there, it means he ran away. If he sees the cops, he'll think he's in trouble and he'll … hide. He's good at hiding." It was the most Hopper had ever heard the kid talk, and he had to admit he made some sense.

"Yeah? Well, cops are good at finding, okay?" He put his hands on Jonathan's arms, holding him there. "Stay here with your mom." Joyce needed someone to be here, anyone who could keep her calm. He punched the kid on the arm, harder than he'd intended, because Jonathan staggered back a couple of steps. "She needs you."

Climbing into the car, Hopper tore out of the driveway, and the exhaustion and the pain and the tension overwhelmed him. Tears streamed down his face—for Sara, for himself, for Joyce, for her kids, for everyone he had let down by not being able to be what they needed. He wished to God he had picked some other town, any other town, where no distraught woman with brown eyes that should never have to weep again could expect him to save the day for her.