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"One More Night"

I've been trying, oh, so long to let you know

Let you know how I feel

And if I stumble, if I fall, just help me back

So I can make you see

- Phil Collins

Joyce woke from a troubled sleep she hadn't even been aware she'd fallen into with the sickening feeling that something was very wrong at home. She didn't know where it came from—maybe the kids' weird behavior at dinner, maybe her own guilt for leaving them, maybe some kind of weird psychic thing. Three years ago she would have scoffed at that last one, but she knew too much about the kinds of impossible things that could come true to scoff at anything anymore.

She reached for the phone, ignoring Murray's snores from across the room, and dialed the number. Busy. What were they doing on the phone at this hour of the morning? Or … what time was it there anyway? Was Alaska on a different time zone? It must be. She tried again. And again. Busy every time.

Murray stirred, snorting, and sat up, blinking around at the room. He fumbled on the table between their beds for his glasses, accidentally slamming the buttons on the phone and cutting off Joyce's latest call.

"Hey!"

"What?"

"I'm trying to call the kids."

Murray got his glasses on and frowned at her, then at the room in general, then looked at the clock. "Joyce! We've got to go! Why didn't you wake me up?"

"I was trying to call home! Why didn't you set an alarm?"

"I didn't exactly pack my alarm clock for a trip—two trips, actually—that I never expected to be going on!" Murray threw the covers off. Both of them had gone to bed almost fully clothed, for modesty, yes, but also because the heat barely worked in this cheap motel. He hunted for his coat and scarf while Joyce dialed again.

"Busy," she complained. "It's still busy." She frowned at the phone. "Did I do something wrong? It says dial one, then the number, which—"

Murray dropped the bag of money then sat heavily down on the bed opposite her. "You can check on your kids later."

"I just don't understand why it's still busy." Maybe Jonathan was on the phone with Nancy, finally having the conversation they'd needed to have for months? Maybe Mike had gotten stuck on the phone with his mom, reassuring her that he was all right?

"Joyce, there are certain things one can be late to in life: a dentist's appointment; a one-year-old's birthday party, because who cares? That little idiot's not going to remember it. But for what is essentially a ransom exchange, for that—for that, I think you very much need to be on time." He grabbed the receiver out of her hand and slammed it down on the base.

He was right, annoying as he was. Of course he was right. And she wanted Hopper back, and she didn't want to screw this up. But … something wasn't right at home, something was up with the kids, she could feel it, and she wanted to talk to one of them, if only for thirty seconds, to reassure herself. Frowning at Murray, she snapped, "Well, you don't have to yell at me about it."

"Apparently, I do!" He stood up, grabbing the bag of money.

Joyce, surrendering to the idea that he was right and there was no more time to waste, grabbed the rest of their stuff off the top of the dresser with its peeling veneer.

"Come on," Murray shouted at her, standing in the doorway.

"Fine, I'm coming, all right?"

He nodded. "I'm sorry. I'm very tense."

She rolled her eyes, exiting the dingy little room. "Clearly."

Hopper had finally managed to force himself to sleep, knowing he had a long day ahead of him and he needed every moment of rest he could manage. But he woke with the first faint sounds of boots ringing on the cement floors far away in another corner of the prison. His shackles were back on, the wound in his foot bound as well as he could manage. It still hurt like hell to stand, much less walk, but he wasn't going to let that stop him from grabbing this chance.

His cell door swung open and he stepped out and joined the line of his fellow prisoners, just like he did every morning, shuffling along past the cells and down the stairs and into the cafeteria, slurping the watery soup and forcing down the maggoty bread. Protein. Nothing to sneeze at, not when you had a lot to do today.

As his cohort left the building, heading out into the snow-covered courtyard, Antonov joined him. They didn't speak for a moment, until they passed the first pair of guards. Then Antonov leaned in. "When you have done whatever it is you are going to do, head west, through the forest. You will see a church with a gray roof. Wait inside. Yuri will meet you there."

"So you heard from her?" Joyce. Oh, God, Joyce. He'd see her soon. And El. He could hardly believe it. Somewhere deep down, he didn't believe it.

"Yeah. They arrived last night. They are meeting Yuri soon. If all goes well, by tomorrow night you're home, eating Enzo's with your sexy woman."

"She's not my woman." That was too much to hope for. Despite his fantasies about the date they never got to have, Hopper knew better than to expect that much out of his life. Joyce had probably found someone else by now, someone who deserved her.

Antonov grinned at him. "Of course not. She saves your life because of friendship." He chuckled, then sighed. "Look, American. Do not put too much hope into this dream. I have thought long about this, and I give your odds of success fifty to one."

That was pretty good, actually. Hopper wasn't anywhere near that optimistic.

When Hopper didn't respond, Antonov frowned. "You don't even seem nervous, American. I'm impressed. You're a cool cat. Like Steve McQueen—the Cooler King. Yeah?" He laughed.

"Let's hope not," Hopper muttered.

"Of course not, because Cooler King went back to cooler. So. You must be better than McQueen today. I change mind. Now I give you odds … a hundred to one."

That was more like it, but still a bit low, in Hopper's opinion.

Antonov looked up, his body stiffening as he saw the squirrelly guard waiting ahead of them. "Our nosy friend again. Where do you want it?"

"Just not my face." The face hurt the most, and Hopper didn't want to be distracted.

But Antonov took the comment a different way, grinning. "Of course not. Must be pretty for your woman."

"She's not my woman," Hopper growled, with all the force of how much he wished she was.

Then Antonov's elbow slammed into his back, sending him forward, thin boots scrabbling for purchase on the ice. Hopper went down, hard, hearing the shouts of the other prisoners, half annoyed at being stuck waiting in the cold, half excited by the idea of something—anything—different happening.

Hopper scrambled to his feet, feeling the blow of Antonov's gun slapping him across the back even as he stumbled forward. Rejoining the line, he focused on breathing. This was really happening. He was really going to attempt to escape a Siberian prison today. It would take all his focus, all his training, all his will, to make it happen.

Will, he thought. If that kid could survive a week in the Upside Down, alone and scared and being hunted by an unimaginable monster, Hopper could fight his way off the chain gang.