Jim Hopper let out a deep groan as he lowered himself into the armchair he'd dragged in front of the old television set.

Reaching into the cooler sitting next to him, he pulled out his third beer of the evening, cracking it open and taking a long swig, wincing through the immediate heartburn. He aimed the remote at the TV, cycling through the channels until he landed on one that was showing Dirty Harry.

He popped the straining button of his jeans and sighed. He had officially made it through his first week of Flo-mandated vacation.

When his longtime secretary had taken it upon herself to do the math and calculate the absurd amount of paid time off he had accrued she'd insisted he take at least two weeks away; advising she refused to be responsible for the stress-related heart attack he was surely heading for.

There was a reason Hopper hadn't taken time off in years. He hated being idle. Work was good. It kept his mind occupied and made him feel useful. Or as useful as one could feel handling petty farmer rivalries and overblown complaints from nosy housewives.

But, he'd never been able to talk Flo down once she'd set her mind to something, so he'd surrendered and begrudgingly fled to his grandfather's old hunting cabin in the woods. He had been meaning to get out here to clean it out and fix it up for a while anyway.

The first few days had been alright—being away from civilization, drinking and smoking to his heart's content while he sorted through the boxes of crap he'd been storing there for over a decade. And with the wood-burning stove crackling and the portable generator hooked up so that he could watch TV and microwave his meals, it wasn't half bad in there.

However, now that night had fallen and he'd completed most of the big tasks, his mind wandered, as it often did, to thoughts of Joyce.

It was a Friday evening, which meant she was surely with The Boyfriend. Bob. Bob "The Brain" Newby. Hopper snorted as he snatched the Marlboro Red from behind his ear and lit it with the end of the one he'd just finished. She had never even looked twice at that weenie in high school.

At first, he'd been certain they wouldn't make it past a handful of pity dates, but now a year had gone by and they were still going strong.

And the worst part was Hopper couldn't even hate the guy because he was so damn nice, and he got along with Will and Jonathan, and… and it'd been a long, long time since he'd seen Joyce as happy as she had been lately. It felt like a boot to the nuts every time he saw them together.

He bet they were cuddled up on her couch right now, probably watching Cheers. Newby seemed like the type of guy to actually find that asinine shit funny.

Hopper let his head fall back, exhaling smoke up at the ceiling. He'd never forgive himself for not asking Joyce out when he had the chance—when they'd reconnected over the whole mess with Will and it seemed obvious that old spark between them was still there.

But, like an idiot, he had tried to do the honourable thing for once in his miserable fucking life and not pressure her right after everything, while she was vulnerable and traumatized. And now it was too late.

So, he went back to his tried and true routine of having unfulfilling short-term relationships that ultimately ended when the woman wanted a level of commitment he couldn't provide. At the moment he was between companions. He'd decided he should probably take a break last month after Liz Carter hadn't taken well to his ending things and had spray-painted "ASSHOLE" onto both sides of his cruiser.

Once he extinguished his cigarette in the dregs of his beer, he dragged the cooler in front of him, throwing his feet up on top of it and crossing his arms over his chest as he let the dulcet tones of Clint Eastwood's voice wash over him.

He was just beginning to doze off, his eyelids drifting shut, when a loud crack rang out into the night.

Hopper sat up with a start, his gaze darting around the room, searching for the source of the sound. The tripwire. He jumped to his feet, hurriedly stepping into his boots and grabbing his service weapon and flashlight from his holster on the table.

Part of him thought he was being overly paranoid when he'd set it up, but these woods were a known stomping grounds for transients hopping on and off the freight trains, and the locks on the cabin weren't in the best of shape.

Slowly, he pushed the front door open, cringing at the shrill squeak of the rusty hinges. He stepped out onto the porch, the frigid night air chilling him instantly. Clicking the flashlight on, he held it below his gun as he descended the wooden steps.

Hopper scanned the length of the tripwire with his flashlight beam, freezing when it landed on a dark, shapeless mass on the ground off to the right.

At first, it looked like some sort of injured animal, but as he slowly drew closer he saw clothing and brown hair and realized it was a person. A small person.

He tucked his gun into his waistband and ran the rest of the way, holding the flashlight in his mouth as he crouched down and gently rolled them over. It was a girl. She was unconscious and covered in mud and some sort of slimy film.

His stomach lurched at the sight of the dark red blood coating the lower half of her face, but he quickly realized it was just from her nose. Then he paused and took in her features, his blood turning to ice when he realized who he was looking at.

It was her. The girl from the lab.

Hopper's instincts kicked in and he leaned in close to listen for her breathing. It was shallow, her chest barely expanding. He pressed two fingers to her carotid artery. Her pulse was slow and weak, and he wiped away the blood to see that her lips were turning blue. Shit. He scooped her up in his arms, shocked to find she barely weighed anything at all.

He ran back to the cabin, kicking open the door and dashing straight to the bathroom where he lowered her carefully into the old tub.

Hopper removed the soaking wet flannel she was wearing over her clothes as well as her shoes and socks before turning on the tap. It spluttered to life from years of disuse, the water tinged orange from the iron in the well water.

He adjusted the temperature, checking it with his hand and making sure it was only lukewarm to start, to avoid sending her body into shock. Hopper said a silent thank you in his head to Flo for forcing him to renew his emergency first aid certification last year.

While he waited for the tub to fill up he observed her. She was thin, obviously malnourished, her face gaunt and pale, her lips dry and cracked. Eleven. Where had she been hiding all these years? A wave of nausea rolled over him as he imagined her on the run, scared and alone.

Grabbing a washcloth from the towel rack, he dipped it into the water and began gently cleaning the blood and grime off of her face and neck. As the water level rose it turned black from whatever substance was all over her.

"Just hang in there, kid," Hopper murmured under his breath as he turned off the tap.

After a few minutes, she finally stopped shivering and there was a little more colour in her face, so he drained the tub and lifted her into his arms again, quickly wrapping her in a large towel and removing her jeans and polo shirt.

He carried her into the bedroom and laid her on the cot he'd been sleeping on, bundling her up in as many blankets as he could find around the place.

Then he brought a chair in from the kitchen and pulled it up to her bedside, taking a seat and resting his elbows on his knees. His chest felt tight as he gazed down at her. She looked so small and frail under the mountain of blankets.

It reminded him so acutely of Sara, his hand automatically going to the blue hair tie around his wrist as the memories he'd spent years outrunning came flooding back—the countless days and nights spent sitting next to her hospital bed as she slowly faded away. Not this time.

Hopper tended to her all night, only leaving her side to brew a bitter cup of instant coffee to keep himself awake. Eleven slept fitfully, whimpering as her eyes rolled back and forth beneath her eyelids.

At around three in the morning, she woke up briefly, panic flashing in her eyes when they landed on him.

"Hey, hey, it's me," he said in a soft voice, holding his hands up in a placating gesture. "It's just me, Hopper. Do you remember me?"

A look of recognition passed over her face, and she was able to give a weak nod as her eyelids drifted closed once again.

It was late afternoon the next time she awoke. He tried to get her to eat some of the canned ravioli he had warmed up for himself, spooning tiny amounts into her mouth. But she was only able to swallow a few bites before she shot up, leaned over the edge of the bed, and vomited the meagre contents of her stomach onto the floor.

After he cleaned up and ensured Eleven was fast asleep again, Hopper drove into town to stock up on provisions—a case of those meal replacement drinks for the elderly, some clothes, a hairbrush… He scanned the shelves of the personal care aisle, feeling completely lost. What else did young girls need? Joyce would know, but he couldn't burden her with this. Not now.

When he returned to the cabin he paused in the doorway of the bedroom, confirming the blankets were still rising and falling with each deep, even breath the girl took in her sleep.

Hopper swallowed down the irritating lump that arose in his throat. All this caregiving was bringing back a lot of complicated, overwhelming emotions for him.

There was a small, fucked-up part of him that was actually relieved he couldn't take Eleven to the hospital. He didn't think he could handle the antiseptic smell and the wires and the machines that beeped incessantly… until they didn't. It was too soon. Eight years gone and it was still too soon.

He so badly wanted to call Diane, the only other person who knew exactly what he'd gone through, but he'd promised himself he wasn't going to do that anymore.

She had moved on. She had a new husband and a kid. She didn't want to be reminded of what they had lost together.

A few days went by and Eleven seemed to be getting infinitesimally stronger, managing to stay awake just long enough to drink an Ensure and walk to the bathroom with his assistance. She'd yet to speak, but Hopper was just glad that it seemed she wasn't going to die on his watch.

Then, one evening just after he'd helped her back into the bed and tucked the blankets tightly around her, she reached out and rested a trembling hand on his forearm.

He crouched down next to her as her eyelids fluttered closed. "What is it, kid?"

Just before losing consciousness, she managed to rasp out one word, so quiet that Hopper had to strain to hear it.

"Mike…"