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"Come Undone"

(Can't ever keep from falling apart

At the seams)

- Duran Duran

Joyce had rarely felt as terrified as she did in the mad rush from the pumpkin field to the lab facility. Yes, it had been hard and frightening to have Will lost where she couldn't get to him, but this—watching her son in terrible agony, unable to do a thing to stop it—this was worse.

Bob ran with her, and Mike, both of them as helpless and lost as she was.

Hopper, already pissed at himself for the whole vine debacle today, was subjected to the further indignity of being hosed down to get all that crap off him. The fully suited lab guys were not gentle, unsurprisingly, and he felt every bristle of the rough brush they used.

Meanwhile, he felt as though over his own yells, mostly of annoyance, he could still hear Will screaming. And because of his own colossal stupidity, he wasn't there to help, to hold Joyce's hand, to try to figure out exactly what was wrong with the kid. No, he was stuck in here like a criminal being taken to jail. Because he was an idiot who didn't use backup, didn't tell anyone where he was going, didn't leave a trail so he could find his way back … If someone who worked for him had made all those mistakes on a single mission, he'd fire them.

Weeping, Joyce fought to stay at Will's side, to keep holding his hand—the only thing she could do for him. But the lab people pushed her out of the way. Not meanly, she'd give Owens that. His whole focus was on Will, and what he could do for Will, and she couldn't blame him for thinking Will's hysterical mom might be in the way.

Will was in agony, writhing and shrieking. They asked him where it hurt the most and even through the oxygen mask they could hear him screaming "EVERYWHERE!", the sound torn from him. Bob held Joyce, his familiar arms some comfort in the midst of this—at least she wasn't alone—but she couldn't take her eyes off Will, wanting desperately to be able to understand what was happening to him, so that she could help.

At last they gave him something from a syringe, and he fell back, finally quieted.

"He'll sleep now, for a little while," Dr. Owens said. "Mrs. Byers, I think you'd better tell me what's been going on with him."

"Oh, now you believe me?"

He put his hands on her shoulders. "There isn't time for that. After we help Will, you want to yell at me, tell me I didn't take this seriously enough, beat me up a little, I'll stand still and let you. I promise. But right now we need to work together. Okay?"

She didn't like it, but she saw his point. "Okay."

Owens glanced at Bob and Mike. "You two wait here, keep an eye on him, be a familiar face in case he wakes up?"

Mike nodded, his eyes big and worried, but Bob stepped toward Joyce. "I'll come with you, if you want."

"That's sweet, but—I have to do this alone." Hawkins Lab would never let him in anyway. Joyce squeezed his hand. "I'll be okay."

Reluctantly, he let her go, sinking into a chair next to Mike.

Joyce went with Owens to a conference room full of men in white lab coats. Useless men who hadn't done a single thing to prevent this from happening to her boy.

"Something's changed since last time I saw you," Owens began.

She nodded. "Thursday I went to the school and I found him in the field. He was—he couldn't see me or hear me, wasn't moving. When he came out of it, he told me it 'got him', said he felt it everywhere. Since then, he … he has these, he calls them 'now-memories', like he knows what that thing is thinking. It's how we found Hopper. That thing … it did something to him."

"And these now-memories, as you call them? How long has he been experiencing them?"

"I told you, since Thursday. Since I found him in the field."

One of the other men asked, "Then why wasn't he brought in?"

"I have been bringing him in," Joyce snapped. "And what have you done? Nothing. Nothing."

"These are … new symptoms, Joyce," Owens argued.

"No. No, he has been telling you over and over that something's wrong and you said it was all in his head. You said 'be patient'. Those were your words!" She sat back, disgusted with the whole lot of them. Letting this happen and then wanting to blame her for it. No way.

"I understand that you're upset, okay? I get it. And I would be, too, if I were in your shoes. But we are all in the same boat here, and I just need you to try—"

Joyce couldn't take another second of being condescended to. She broke into Owens' monologue. "What, stay calm? Trust you?" She glared at the whole tableful of them. "No. I want him transferred. To a real hospital."

"Well … you know that's not possible," Owens said.

One of the others spoke up. "He really will get the best treatment here, Mrs. Byers. The very best."

Did they think she was stupid? Yep. That's what it was. They thought she was stupid. And hysterical. And all sorts of other things that people had been thinking about her for years. Looking around at the blank faces, all completely unreadable, she asked, "And what are you treating him for, exactly?" She got to her feet, glaring down at them all. "Can anyone tell me what's wrong with him? Can a single person in this room tell me what is wrong with my boy?"

They all looked at each other and back at her and no one answered her.

"What is wrong with my boy?" she shouted, slamming her hands down on the table.

But she hadn't expected an answer, and she didn't get one.