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"The Waiting"

You take it on faith, you take it to the heart

The waiting is the hardest part

- Tom Petty

"It is done," Antonov whispered to Hopper.

"Done? What's done?"

"The package."

Hopper looked at the guard in shock. "Already?"

Antonov nodded. He was practically bouncing with a mixture of excitement and nerves.

"And you put in the—the note?"

That brought a grin to the guard's face. "Yes. A thing of beauty, if I do say so myself."

Hopper wasn't sure he trusted that. "What did it say?"

"I remembered to sign it 'Enzo', and I gave the number for her to call."

"What number?"

"It is a paid phone outside my apartment building. I will watch it at certain times of the day."

"And if she calls it when you aren't watching it?"

Antonov shrugged. "She will have to call back."

"What if she doesn't?"

"She will." He grinned again. "I told her you are still looking forward to your date."

"You what?" This was what came of having to trust other people to do things—they embellished.

"Come now, you are, aren't you? And you hope that she is, or you would have had me contact someone else."

Hopper couldn't deny either of those statements … but for his own sanity, he had to think of Joyce as having moved on from their brief flirtation with becoming something to one another. He couldn't bear to hope that he might be able to come home to her love as well as El's, because having that dream shattered would break his heart. "What if she thinks the whole thing is a hoax—or a trap—and she never calls at all?"

"Then we try again." Antonov looked at him with those shrewd blue eyes that saw a lot more than Hopper had originally given him credit for. "What do you have but time?"

Well, that was true enough, much as Hopper hated to admit it. Antonov moved off, leaving Hopper to shuffle along in line to get his thin soup and dry bread.

At first, he tried to count the days. So many days for the package to make it across Russia, across the ocean, across the US, and to Joyce's porch in Hawkins. So many days for her to open it, find the note, decide it was real, and then call.

But here in Siberia, every day was exactly like the one before. It wasn't long before Hopper had completely lost track of how many days it had been, or how many more days it could be. He tried not to stare questions at Antonov every time he saw him. Any suspicious behavior, and both of them would be dead. He knew that. A particular guard, a skinny weaselly looking guy, had started to take an interest in Hopper, and especially in how often Antonov hauled Hopper out of line to beat him up privately. They were going to have to keep a low profile if they didn't want to attract unnecessary attention.

Next time Antonov fell into step next to him, Hopper braced for the news. Or the lack of news. Antonov was silent, which was unlike him.

"Well?" Hopper hissed at last.

"Well what?"

"Have you heard anything?"

Antonov glanced at him, shaking his head briefly, and then looked away.

"How long has it been?"

Frowning thoughtfully, Antonov considered. "A week? Six days."

Was that all? It had felt like longer. Much longer. Six days maybe got the package across Russia and into the US, but that depended on how efficient the Russian mail delivery system was, and based on how this prison ran, Hopper didn't imagine the postal service was working with the latest technology.

"Patience, my friend. Patience."

"Yeah. Right. What do I have but time?"

"Now you have the spirit." And Antonov strolled off, whistling cheerfully.

At night in his cell, Hopper tortured himself. First, with dark thoughts about Joyce—that she would find the note, decide it wasn't worth coming after him, and toss it. That she would be too afraid to risk coming for him. That she had already moved on with someone else and she would hand his note off to … who? Murray? Doc Owens?

But El would never let her do that. And El could see him with her mind, right? Unless … Unless El hadn't made it out of the mall. Or the Mindflayer had done something to her. What if Joyce had her hands full taking care of an injured El and couldn't take time to help him even if she wanted to?

And, worst torture of all, the dreams of freedom. Of Joyce in his arms, of El's bright smile when she saw him, of sitting down to pizza with all the kids at Joyce's house, of a perfect romantic date at Enzo's, breadsticks and all … those were the ones that brought him to tears and made him wish Antonov had never spoken to him, never brought him this poisonous hope.

Maybe he hadn't. Maybe it was all an elaborate scheme to get Hopper to reveal … something. Joyce's name and address, maybe? Maybe some one of these days Antonov would stroll up and tell him that Joyce was now a Russian prisoner, thank you very much for your cooperation. Or, worse, never tell him anything at all, and Hopper would spend weeks, months, years, waiting for a call that would never come because the package had never been sent.

Daylight and the chain gang were a relief now, because they took Hopper out of the silent solitude of his cell and at least gave him something to do to take his mind off the endless dark loop of his fears and his hopes.