Joyce surprises herself by falling asleep, despite her worry for Will, despite her grief about Bob, despite her feelings for Jim, despite how uncomfortable the cot is, and despite her absolute and utter heartbreak about Steve's situation.

She sleeps soundly, so soundly that she has drool dribbled down her chin. So soundly, that when she wakes up, she actually feels guilty for sleeping so hard, especially when she's greeted by the soft keening sounds of Steve Harrington.

He's not awake. He's sleeping too. But he's dreaming. Having a nightmare, probably, as he twists and turns in his bed, the hospital sheet clinging sloppily to his clammy skin.

He's moaning soft protests, sounding for all the world like her Will, and Joyce won't let him go on like that. She wipes her mouth on her sleeve and then reaches her arm out to give the boy's shoulder a gentle shake. "Steve, honey," she says softly.

He jolts awake, disoriented and frantic. "Mom?" he says, confused.

"No, Steve, it's Joyce, sweetheart." She smiles at him, calm and collected because she's used to waking scared kids up from nightmares and having them stare right through her.

"Joyce…" Steve repeats and pushes himself up into a half-seated position. He swallows hard and blinks a few times as he takes in his surroundings.

"Do you know where you are?" Joyce asks him. "Do you remember…?"

Steve blows out some air and pinches the bridge of his nose. "Yeah," he breathes. "Yeah, I remember. Sorry." He runs a hand over his face. "I was having a nightmare?"

Joyce nods. "Sounded like."

The problem is, she's just woken him up and now he's in another nightmare. A real one.

Steve pushes himself up the rest of the way, with quite a bit of effort – wincing – and lifts his arm up to look at the watch on his left wrist.

Based on the fact that it's starting to get light outside, Joyce guesses it's around 7:00. Steve confirms that when he tells her it's 7:10.

"I think I slept the whole night," Steve says thoughtfully. "I-I didn't think I would."

"You must've needed it," Joyce tells him. That's how she justifying her seven hours. But she also thinks the sleeping pills the nurse gave to Steve might have played a part in his successful slumber.

"Did you get some sleep too?" Steve asks. "That cot doesn't look very comfortable."

Joyce's heart tugs at the fact that Steve is so concerned about her well-being. "I got plenty of sleep, hon. You don't have to worry about me." She reaches for the kid again, this time to palm his forehead to check for fever on his flushed face; she finds that his skin is cool to the touch and relaxes a little. "How are you feeling?"

"I don't know," he answers softly. "I think… I think I'm okay." He lets out a sigh. "But my back, uh, it really hurts."

Joyce closes her eyes briefly, sick at the memory of Steve disclosing everything his father had put him through last night. She runs her hands through Steve's messy mop of hair, tries to make it look a little more presentable. "And what about your head?" she asks, because she can't forget the Billy-Hargrove-induced concussion.

Steve just shrugs, which is enough to let Joyce know that it probably hurts, but that Steve has grown used to it in the past couple of weeks.

"Your stomach?"

Steve looks down. "A little uneasy," he admits, and more red rushes to his cheeks. "Mrs. Byers—" he starts.

"Joyce," she corrects.

Steve's face reddens further. "Joyce," he amends. "Do you think they're going to make me stay here?"

Joyce swallows hard, because yes, she thinks they might. "I think they'll reassess your condition today," she tells him. "And make a decision from there."

Steve nods. "I need to get ahold of my mom," he says, voice cracking slightly. "God, she… she doesn't even know." He presses on his eyelids. "And don't I need to… like… start making arrangements for… for my…?"

Joyce puts her hand on top of the kid's, tries her best to be comforting. "You have time," she says softly, regarding his father. "You don't have to think about that now. You can let your mom handle that, or the two of you can handle it together, once she gets back in the States."

Steve's biting down, hard, on his quivering lip. He nods. "My m-mom left a number on the fridge," he says, like he's just remembering. "To the hotel t-they were staying in."

"I have it."

Jim's voice startles them both and they turn to see him standing in the doorway, a duffle bag slung over his shoulder. "Hey, kid. Joyce," he greets gruffly as he steps in the room and pulls up an armchair to join the conversation. He drops the bag beside him. "You get any sleep last night?"

Joyce squeezes Steve's hand. "Yeah, we both did."

Jim looks pleased with that answer. "Good."

"You have that number?" Steve asks Hopper.

Jim nods and digs around in his pocket for it. "I grabbed it last night when I was over at your house. I also grabbed you some clean clothes," he says, nudging the duffle bag with his foot. "But with everything going on last night, I forgot to give them to you." He hands a wrinkled piece of paper over to Steve.

Joyce has always admired Jim's ability to think ahead and she is so thankful that he's here right now.

"Thanks, Chief," Steve says earnestly. He clutches the paper tightly in his hand. "Uh, w-what time is it in Paris?"

Joyce doesn't know, so she looks to Hopper. He glances down at his watch. "I'm not positive, but I think they're about six hours ahead of us. So going on 1:30?"

"Should I try calling her now?" Steve asks.

"No," Hopper says. "I want to know about you first, kid. How are you doing?"

Joyce sees Steve shrink into himself a little, so she answers for him. "His back is really bothering him and his stomach's still a little upset. I don't think he's running a fever."

Steve nods. "Yeah, so now you're up to speed. C-Can I have the phone?"

"Wait, just hold on a second," Hopper says. "Let me take a look at—"

"No," Steve says firmly, and Joyce can hear an edge of panic in his voice. "I-I need to call her. Please. I need to get it over with."

Jim locks his eyes uncertainly with Joyce. "Give him the phone, Hop," she tells him. She can hear the desperation in Steve's voice and she knows it won't go away until he gets ahold of his mother.

Jim relents and tugs the phone toward Steve. "Kid, if you want, I can talk to her…" He's trying to save the boy some pain, trying to keep him from having a difficult conversation. But Joyce knows he won't take the bait. She's pretty sure Jim knows it too.

Steve shakes his head. "It has to be me."

He lets out a deep breath, looks down at the crumpled piece of paper, and starts to dial.