"Just fleeting glimpses of how I got here. And flashes of where I'm going."

Wonder Woman, Issue 609

When Eleven opens her eyes she sees an endless field of identical white flowers woven in polyester against a plane of light green and illuminated by a dim light that glows golden behind them like a distant star. There is static coming through the roof and it falls like tiny droplets of rain that settle on her hair and send a cold shiver forking like lightning from the base of her neck and to the tips of her fingers and her toes. The sensation makes her shift in her seat and as she lifts her arms to steady herself she feels the weight of her sweatshirt hanging from them, the sleeves like deflated balloons with their lips wound tightly around her wrists.

Back again, a voice says.

She knows that it is him from the way that his vowels squeak out of his throat. She turns to face him and sees that in the gloom his face is only a silhouette but still she can make out he unmistakable outline of his nose and the ridges of his cheekbones and his forehead hiding behind an unkempt nest of hair, all of which she used to know like the back of her own hand.

Yes, Eleven says. Back again.

She reaches out and peels back the bedsheet and peers out at the room. It is the same as it has always been and yet there is something different about it that she cannot put her finger on, as if someone had rearranged all of the furniture only to put it all back in its original place before she had arrived. The table in the corner is still covered in binders and plastic figurines but she cannot tell if they have been moved and when she looks away the scribbled text on the notes strewn haphazardly over its surface seems to swirl and change even though she cannot tell what it says. On the wall there is still the poster of the bird but now it is looking to its right and she cannot remember if it had always been that way.

What's wrong? Mike says.

Nothing, Eleven says.

Are you sure?

I don't know.

Still the room is only lit by the lamp in the corner and at the border where the light begins to fade into darkness she sees a sewing machine sitting atop a rectangular desk that has remained unused for so long that it has begun to rust in the unyielding humidity. A few magazines are stacked neatly next to it, the words on their spines written in fluorescent pinks and yellows that seem to glow.

You don't need to keep coming back here, you know, Mike says.

I like it here, Eleven says.

Do you really?

Yes.

Even though it's cold?

I'm warm enough.

Even though it's dark?

It is not so bad.

Even though –

I just like it here, Mike. I just do. Where else would I even go?

Eleven watches him turn his head to look at the staircase leading up and out of the basement. Her eyes follow his as he traces the slope of the bannisters up and towards the wooden door that stands at the top of the stairs where the light of the lamp is still not bright enough to reach.

There are other places, you know, Mike says.

Like what?

Where it is not so dark and not so cold and where you can feel the wind on your face and not have to smell the mold coming from the carpet.

I don't understand.

But you do, Jane, Mike says. All I can do is tell you what you already know, you know. Like the zoo. Like that store that you wandered off into, filled with junk. Like the back seat of the car.

They sit in silence for a moment and let the crackling of the radio static pour over them. Eleven thinks she can hear music, faint and almost imperceptible, barely distinguishable from the white noise, as if it is being played on low volume through a broken set of speakers at the opposite end of the house. It's in the trees, a man's voice seems to say. It's coming.

We should get going, Mike says. The sound of his voice pulls Eleven back to where she sits cross-legged on the floor, beginning to feel her toes and her legs turn numb.

A little longer? Eleven says.

You can't stay here your whole life, Jane.

I know. But a little longer. What if. She catches the words before they manage to escape, as if even acknowledging the possibility that there might be somewhere else outside of the four walls of the basement might lift her to her feet and transport her away against her will.

What if what? Mike says.

What if – what if I don't like it out there, Eleven says.

Why wouldn't you?

I don't know. I just – I don't know what's out there.

You won't know until you leave –

But what if –

– but there has always been someone to catch you when you fall, hasn't there?

I don't know what you mean.

When you feel like there is that pit in your stomach. There has always been someone there. To pull you back.

You?

No, not me. In the quiet moments in the car when your mind begins to drift away and you feel like you are floating off into space and in the moments when you lie awake at night and you wonder why, why did they put you here, why did they give you your powers and you wish you had just been normal like me like the other girls in Hawkins – and then you think it might all be worth it in the end just so that when you open your eyes in the morning and turn your head you can see her looking back at you –

Mike's voice begins to trail off even as Eleven sees his lips continue to move. The sound of the music seems to grow louder and soon it is as if she is sitting there with headphones over her ears, the pounding of the drums like the thudding of her own heartbeat inside her head.

A little longer, Eleven says.

Okay, she hears Mike say. She does not turn back to look at him. Okay. A little longer. He puts his hand on his shoulder and Eleven knows that soon she will be jerked, gasping back into the living world. A little longer, he says.

When Eleven awakens she sees that they have just turned off the highway and towards the campground where they will spend the night. There is a sign at the side of the road with a cartoon moose skiing on it that reads, "Welcome to Elk Mountain". In the distance there is a collection of squat buildings with tin rooves and wooden sides painted red and white that sit huddled together in the shadow of the mountains capped with snow. When Max notices that she is awake she takes the headphones off her ears and lets them hang around her neck.

"Hey," Max says.

"Hey," Eleven says.

"Picked a good time to wake up. Almost there."

"Sorry."

"It's okay. I had Kate Bush to keep me company, anyway."

She holds up her cassette player for Eleven to see and smiles and puts it away in her backpack. Eleven smiles back at her before they both turn away again to look out their respective windows. For the rest of the journey they sit and feel the car rock back and forth against the uneven surface of the gravel road and listen to the crunching sound that the pebbles make as the tires pass over them. From time to time Eleven thinks of something to say and she turns to look at Max but when she is about to start she cannot bear to disrupt the tranquil silence that blankets them and so in the end she settles for the view out of her window and saying nothing at all.

In the shade of the pine trees that line the sides of the trail the air is cool and as Robin drags her feet along the dirt path and listens to the crackling of the dried leaves under her feet she feels her wool sweater prick against the skin at the nape of her neck. She can hear Vickie plodding along just behind her, trying her best to keep up her pantomime impression of an upset child, stomping her feet and kicking at a fallen branch.

"Vick," Robin says. She suddenly stops and turns around and Vickie, her attention still fixed on taking out her frustrations on the world around her, does not notice until it is too late and crashes into her.

"What the hell, Robin?" Vickie says. Robin watches her pull her face together into a frown but she is betrayed by the corners of her lips that twitch as she attempts and fails to keep them from curling upwards.

"Sorry. Didn't realize you were there."

"Didn't want to get lost. Anyway – what?"

"Are you still mad at me?"

"What do you think?"

"Look," Robin sighs. "All I'm saying is, if you just let me do the dishes it'll be quicker for everyone."

"Oh, I didn't realize I was being slow, too. So I'm not just doing them wrong, I'm also doing them too slowly too. Gee whiz, sorry for trying to help, Robin."

"You know that's not what I mean."

"Oh, now I'm stupid, too. Look at me, I'm Vickie and I'm so stupid I can't even understand what Robin is saying, let alone –"

"You are such a dork," Robin says. She rolls her eyes and even though she knows that it is all just another one of her performances a sense of relief still washes over her when the façade finally breaks and she sees her face begin to relax and a smile emerge like the first rays of sunshine that peep out from behind the clouds after a summer rainstorm.

"You know, this is what you have to look forward to," Vickie says.

"What?" Robin says.

"You know. When people get married, this is all they do. Bicker. Like, non-stop. My God it doesn't stop with those people, it's like, why did you put your mug down on the coffee table without a coaster this, and oh that's unpatriotic and I don't want Mike turning into a commie sympathizer that, and –"

"Hold on. Who said anything about getting married?"

"Oh," Vickie says. "You didn't know? Steve and I are getting hitched. Once we get to California."

"Oh really?"

"Yeah. You didn't know?"

"I didn't really think he was your type."

"Yeah. You know, he's got the cool hair. And he gives really good back rubs, and he's really good at singing Cyndi Lauper in the shower when he thinks other people can't hear because she is so not aligned with the whole, too cool for school, rebel without a cause thing he's got going on. Oh, and he's pretty good at scrubbing dishes, too."

Vickie sticks her tongue out and Robin smiles back at her. She places her arms around Vickie's waist and pulls her in, feeling the textured knit of her cardigan press into her arm and the warmth of her breath against her cheek that makes her skin tingle. She sees her blink back at her with those pools of cerulean blue that she could wade and submerge herself in forever and closes her eyes and kisses her, forgetting for a moment about the world around her and leaning into Vickie's palm as she caresses the side of her face and brushes away a stray lock of hair. And yet when they finally pull away from one another Robin is brought crashing back to life and instinctively she looks around like a deer that has just heard a branch snap and is relieved when she sees noone else there.

"Robin," Vickie says. "It's okay."

"Yeah. I know. I'm sorry."

"Don't be. It's okay – just – we're going to have to tell everyone some day."

"Yeah. I know."

Vickie tucks her head under Robin's chin and for a moment they linger, rocking back and forth as they hold each other, neither person wanting to move from the spot on the trail where they had come to a stop. Robin feels Vickie's hair tickle her nostrils, the faint smell of shampoo mingling with the scent of crushed pine needles underfoot and the earthy smell of the damp dirt heaped at the sides of the path.

"That Steve guy sounds pretty cool," Robin says.

"Yeah," Vickie says. "Don't worry. You can like, third wheel or something."

"Thank God. I thought you'd never offer."

Eventually, Robin realizes that they have lost the rest of the group and so she untangles herself from their embrace and starts off again in the direction that she had seen them walking earlier. As she does she gives Vickie a tug on the arm that almost sends her collapsing to the ground and once she has regained her balance they scamper along the path, half-sprinting until Robin finally sees two heads bobbing up and down alongside each other in the distance, one a deep walnut brown and the other the color of the orange-red finches that flitter about in the canopy above them.

"There they are," Robin says.

"Thank goodness," Vickie says. "I'm – hang on – just give me a second –"

They slow back down to a saunter while Vickie catches her breath, Robin being careful to look ahead of them intermittently to make sure that they are still keeping up with the others. She sees Eleven laugh and give Max a small shove that she guesses is harder than she intended by the way that it sends Max teetering and about to fall over before ELeven has to stretch out an arm and catch her and pull her back to her feet and wipe her nose with her sleeve.

"They're cute, right?" Vickie says.

"Yeah," Robin says. "I mean – do you think they –"

"Like each other?"

"Yeah. Like, like like."

"Oh thank God," Vickie says. "I thought I was just imagining things – like, the other day, when you and Max had that conversation I thought, wait, she definitely likes girls, right? But then I thought, what if she likes El and I don't really know her that well so I don't know, you know, if they're just besties or –"

Robin sees Eleven whip her head around to look at them and it is only then that she realizes how loud they have been and so she gives Vickie a small pinch on the arm to get her to stop talking. She waves at Eleven and watches her wave back and turn back around and continue walking with Max by her side and her heartbeat begins to slow back down when it dawns on her that she had only been checking to make sure that no strangers had seen the way she had stopped Max from falling.

"I don't think they know," Robin whispers.

"Know what?" Vickie whispers back.

"About each other. You know."

"Oh. Why not?"

They pause for a moment while Vickie fiddles with one of the buttons on her cardigan that has become undone. In the distance Eleven and Max stroll along the trail, peering up at the birds darting back and forth in the trees. From time to time one of them looks back down and turns their head just enough to bring the other into view before they turn away again.

"I don't know. Just – the way Max was talking the other day," Robin says. "Do you think we should tell them?"

"About each other?" Vickie says.

"Yeah."

Robin feels Vickie press her hand into hers and she lets their fingers intertwine, feeling her pulse against her wrist. She watches Vickie's face move away from her and towards a spot in front of her on the ground. A stillness overcomes her face as her thoughts churn in her head.

"Give them time," Vickie finally says.

"What do you mean?"

"I don't know. Like, I think I had this massive crush on you from the moment we met in band but if someone was like, hey, that Robin girl likes girls too and guess what she likes you back and you should totally get together, I think I would have hidden myself in a cave and like, I don't know, died. Or at least never spoken to anyone else ever again. You know. Sometimes you just need to wait until you're ready."

"Wait," Robin says. "You had what?"

Vickie pauses, her eyes growing wide. "Race you to that tree," she blurts out suddenly, pointing at a lone aspen with yellowing leaves standing amongst the pine trees at the bottom of the hill before them.

Before Robin can even register what Vickie has said she has taken off, her feet landing heavily on the path and sending small clouds of dust into the air behind her and the wind picking up her cardigan and sending it fluttering behind her like a cape. As she watches her run down the hill the thoughts in Robin's head are like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle that someone has pulled apart and thrown into a heap. From the moment we met in band, she thinks.

When she makes it to the tree some of the initial shock has begun to wear off and Vickie teases her for being too slow and she is too distracted by her breathlessness to ask any more questions. They have almost caught up to Max and Eleven and so they call out to them and they make the journey back to the campground together, reminiscing about middle school and chattering away about their hopes for what their new lives in California will be like and what they plan to do on weekends. And although on the outside Robin is her usual gregarious self, those words play over and over in her head the whole time, becoming so loud that she can barely hear the others speak. From the moment we met in band. From the moment we met in band.

Max can feel the heat of the campfire against her face. Some of the others have already disappeared inside and an hour or so ago she had watched as the lights in the Sinclairs' motorhome flickered off. Now there is only the stillness of the starless night and the dark clouds shambling across the sky and the crackling of the flames and the low murmur of a few of the other parents milling around with mugs of instant coffee in their hands. She sits and feels the empty space beside her that Eleven had left when she had been pulled away by sleep and she curses the uneven light of the flame that dances in the wind and casts shadows that emerge and recede on the pages of her book like waves on the shore.

She only wishes she had followed Eleven back inside, shuffling along to her side and slightly behind as she always would, leaning into her shoulder for support when her ankles felt as if they were about to give way. But in the split second between Eleven asking if she wanted to come with her and her reply leaving her lips all of that had been forgotten and she had only been able to think about the unbearable closeness that would inevitably leave her feeling as if there was a canyon between them and so in the end she had told her that she would just stay out for a little bit to warm her legs by the fire and that she would see her in the morning. Even now as she thinks about how Eleven would giggle each time she would have to catch her when she stumbled she cannot stand the thought of having to slide under the sheets next to her and hear her mumble her name half-asleep and to pretend that everything is just fine and just as it always had been.

Max hears footsteps next to her, light and tentative and dampened by the soft green grass. She turns and she sees Joyce hovering above her. She smiles at Max as she crouches down next to her, blowing into her hands and rubbing them together as she holds them up to the fire.

"Hey," Joyce says.

"Hey," Max says. In the light of the fire Joyce's wrinkles run like dark streams of water from the corners of her eyes and they only seem to grow deeper when she purses her lips and scrunches up her face, trying to figure out what to say next.

"Still reading that book, huh?"

"Yep."

"What is it?"

"Moby-Dick," Max says. She folds over the corner of the page and closes the book and holds it up to show her the picture of a whale's tail sticking out of the water on its cover.

"Oh," Joyce says. She laughs halfheartedly. "I think we were meant to read that when I was in school, like a million years ago. Never did though. How is it?"

Max shrugs her shoulders. It was not that she minded the interruption. She had barely been reading in the first place, her eyes skipping over the words so that when she went to turn the page she could not remember what she had just read and she would have to start all over again. It was not that she did not like Joyce, either. She had always liked her. But perhaps it was because she had only ever really liked her because Eleven seemed to care about her and she seemed to care about Eleven.

"Sorry," Joyce says. "I know we haven't talked much."

"It's okay," Max says. "We've all been kind of busy."

"Yeah."

Funny, Max thinks. How you can go through so much with someone and at the end of the day still be strangers. They had had things to talk about when the world was about to end. Plans to follow and dangers to warn each other about. Now there is barely anything. Not even how she is going at school or how things are going at home or how things are with Lucas. And so she had gone back to being just another face in the audience of the performance of her life.

"How are your legs feeling?" Joyce says.

"Okay," Max says. "A little better, I guess."

"El said you managed the walk today okay."

"Yeah."

"So. Getting there, right?"

"Yeah."

In the breeze she feels a coolness on her cheeks and when she raises a hand to feel her skin she finds that it is wet with tears and only then does she realize that she has been crying. She rolls down her sleeve and dabs at her eyes and hopes that somehow the darkness has hidden all of this from Joyce and her heart sinks when she feels an arm around her shoulder and she has to concentrate just to resist her instinct to jerk herself away.

"Do you remember Bob?" Joyce says.

"Yeah," Max says. It is only once she has heard the word leave her lips that she recognizes that the question probably requires more than a monosyllabic answer. "A bit. Sorry, we'd just moved, and I don't think –"

"No, it's okay."

"Sorry –"

In truth, she can barely conjure up the image of Bob in her mind at all. Her memories of those first few months spent in Hawkins are little more than a feeling, little more than a sort of jagged rhythm created the constant cycle of being driven by Billy to the arcade in the afternoon after school and spending hours alone in front of the Dig Dug machine before skateboarding home. She had hated it all then and she would probably hate it now but there is still the small part of her that wishes that some miracle might one day take her back there, to living her average life in a podunk town, repeating that same routine over and over again until it would grind her down, back into the dirt from which she was made.

"You know, when he – when he died," Joyce says. "God. I thought I'd never get over it. I just kept thinking to myself – when am I going to forget about him, how come I can't get him out of my head? Like I'd fallen into this great, big canyon and I didn't know how I was ever going to climb out and I thought the only chance I had was to just – forget."

Joyce sighs and takes her hand away from Max's shoulder and fiddles with her necklace. She pauses and coughs and mutters something to herself about the smoke and Max can hear her tongue stick to her lips as she begins to speak again.

"But over time, you know. You realize. It's not about forgetting. It's about – I don't know. Finding out that one day you can look back and think about all of the happy memories you had. Finding out that one day I could walk past that building in town where the RadioShack used to be and I could smile when I remembered him sitting there tinkering with his – oh, you know, I still don't even know what they're called."

She laughs and shakes her head. Her voice is soft and raspy and the words seem to almost creak out of the corners of her lips. There is something about it that reminds Max of when she had been young and her mother had sat by her bedside in her room in California and read to her, letting her voice trail off as she was about to fall asleep to avoid accidentally rousing her.

"That you can still carry people around with you, even after they're gone. In your heart," she says.

When Max looks up from the tuft of grass she has been staring at she sees Joyce gazing out at the night sky, as if her mind is caught somewhere at the threshold between past and present. A moment passes before she eventually returns to the waking world.

"And, I don't know. Talking helps. Not to me, I know, I'm kinda lame or whatever you kids say these days. But someone. Okay?"

"Okay," Max mumbles.

A few more moments trickle by in silence before Joyce yawns and stretches her arms before letting them fall clumsily back into her lap. She says something about needing to go to bed that Max does not entirely hear and she asks her if she wants her to walk her back to Hopper's trailer and Max, not knowing precisely why, tells her that she is fine and that she just wants to be outside for a couple more minutes. It is only after the few remaining parents decide to put out the fire and head back inside that she hauls herself to her feet, grasping at the air as she struggles to find her balance and leaning against a folding chair to keep herself from falling back to the ground. When she stumbles back inside the trailer and climbs into bed Eleven smiles and opens her eyes just enough to catch a glimpse of her and by the time Max begins to apologize she sees that she has already closed them again and drifted back off to sleep.