Chapter Text
The next morning starts with the smell of burnt toast.
Will knows it’s burnt before he even opens his eyes; it’s the distinct, bitter edge that means the toaster and Hopper have once again entered their age-old battle. He lies there for a second, listening to the muffled sounds of the house, the radio in the kitchen turned down low, pipes rattling in the walls, the creak of someone walking down the hall in socks.
By the time he drags himself out of bed and pulls on a sweater, the toast smell has been partially overpowered by coffee and whatever Joyce has decided to throw in a pan to count as breakfast.
Jane is already at the kitchen table when he pads in, elbows planted, hair a messy halo around her face. She’s paging through a glossy catalog, lips moving silently as she reads the descriptions.
“Morning,” Will says, dropping into the chair across from her.
“Good morning,” she echoes, without looking up. “Did you know there is a store that sells only socks? Different socks. All socks.”
“Truly a golden age,” Jonathan mutters from the counter, leaning on one hip as he pours orange juice. His hair is still damp from the shower, curling a little at the ends.
Hopper stands by the toaster with his arms folded like he’s about to arrest it, while Joyce scrapes a blackened slice of bread into the trash with theatrical disgust.
“I said two,” she tells Hopper. “Two. Not ‘until the room smells like a campfire.’”
“The dial is a suggestion,” Hopper says, defensively. “You want it to do something, you turn it all the way.”
“That is how explosions happen,” Jane says without looking up.
Will smiles around a yawn. The banter rolls around him, familiar and warm, like an old song.
Joyce plunks a plate in front of him, slightly less burnt toast, scrambled eggs that are more solid than fluffy, and half a sliced apple.
“Eat,” she orders gently. “You’ve got another long one today.”
He makes a face. “You talked to Mrs. Worthington again?”
“She called last night to tell me you’re ‘integral to the visual storytelling,’” Joyce says, mimicking the woman’s breathy enthusiasm almost perfectly. “Which I think is code for ‘I’m not letting him leave until the paint dries.’”
“It’s not that bad,” Will says, automatically defending stage crew. “We just… have a lot to do.”
“You always say that,” Jonathan says, handing Jane a glass of juice. “You know you’re allowed to say no sometimes, right?”
“Not if I want the set to not fall on anyone,” Will says.
“Valid,” Jonathan concedes.
Hopper drops into his usual chair with a fresh mug of coffee. “What time’s Worthington got you until this time?” he asks, squinting at the clock. “Six? Seven? Midnight under the ghost light?”
“She said until five,” Will says. “Maybe a little later, if we’re behind.”
“Yeah, that’s a no,” Hopper says immediately. “I’ve got the mall run with Max and our resident mall expert here.” He nods at Jane. “We’re leaving right after school. Joyce is closing tonight and I’m picking her up on the way back. Jonathan’s got the car for his lab shift. Nobody’s free to shuttle you around after five.”
Will pauses, fork halfway to his mouth.
“Oh,” he says.
“I told you yesterday,” Joyce says, sitting down with her own plate. “You might not have been listening because you were busy drawing on your napkin.”
He flushes.
“I was not— okay, I was, but it was… stage stuff.” It had been a rough thumbnail of Grover’s Corners, lines of rooftops squeezed between the salt shaker and the napkin dispenser.
“You need to tell Mrs. Worthington you have to leave on time today,” Joyce continues, tone firm but not unkind. “she’ll survive.”
Jane flips a page in the catalog. It’s an ad for the mall: a glossy spread of store logos and grinning models wearing neon and denim.
“Hopper promised we will go to the mall as a family,” she says, like she’s reciting a law. “Max will meet us there. She says she will help me find ‘non-dork’ clothes.” She frowns, considering. “I do not think my clothes are dork. But I want to try the big pretzels.”
“Your clothes are great,” Will says. “Max just likes messing with people.”
“And buying ridiculous sunglasses,” Jonathan adds.
“That too,” Will says.
“You can come next time,” Jane tells him. “When you are not… glued.”
“Chained,” Hopper supplies.
“Chained to the set,” Jane finishes, satisfied.
“Yeah,” Will says, pushing egg around his plate. “Next time.”
He can picture it, trailing behind Hopper and Joyce and Jonathan and Jane and Max through the echoing mall, stopping at record stores and pretzel stands and that weird shop that sells lava lamps and black-light posters. It sounds… loud. Overwhelming. A little wonderful.
But today is paint, and Mrs. Worthington’s clipboard, and the guilt that coils in his stomach when he thinks about skipping stage crew for anything that isn’t an emergency.
And somewhere in the middle of all that, there’s Eddie’s campaign next week and the Friday game and banners and—
“Hey,” Jonathan says, as if reading his mind. “You’re making that face again.”
“What face,” Will mumbles.
“The one that looks like you’re juggling flaming knives,” Jonathan says. “And none of them are actually real."
Will huffs a breath that’s close to a laugh.
“Just thinking,” he says.
“Thinking’s good,” Joyce says. “Just don’t think so much you walk into a pole on your way to school, okay?”
He rolls his eyes but nods.
As he eats, his gaze flicks to his backpack by the door, where his sketchbook is tucked between textbooks. Last night he’d added another drawing to the growing pile: rough lines forming the shape of Chance hunched over the banner, marker in hand, brows pinched in concentration. The R on the paper in front of him had been shaded with almost more care than the face.
He’d gone to sleep with his fingers still smudged with ink.
Now, with the taste of burnt toast and apples in his mouth, he feels the urge to draw again, like an itch under his skin. But there’s no time; the clock is already sliding past 7:30.
“Come on,” Jonathan says, grabbing his keys from the hook. “I can get you two halfway before I have to cut over to the paper. The rest you walk. Think of the exercise.”
“Cruelty,” Will says, but he stands.
Jane presses the catalog to her chest, eyes bright.
“I will look at the stores in the car,” she says. “So I am ready.”
Will grins despite himself.
The school day begins the way it always does: a rush of cold air as they step out of the car, the mixed smell of exhaust and wet leaves, the distant shriek of the first bell warning that they’re cutting it closer than usual.
Will’s backpack feels heavier than normal with the added weight of his obligations. Set. Campaign. Game. The words stack in his head like props backstage, each one waiting its turn.
At the lockers, the usual chaos has already assembled.
Dustin is in full rant mode, gesturing wildly with a pencil, his curly hair frizzed out around his head like he’s been static-shocked.
“—and I am telling you, a level 14 spellcaster needs at least one oh-shit button,” he insists. “You can’t just rely on Counterspell and sheer optimism, Michael.”
“You absolutely can rely on sheer optimism,” Mike argues, slamming his locker shut. “That’s been Steve’s entire strategy for the last three years and he’s still alive.”
“That is not reassuring,” Jane murmurs, hovering beside Will with her binder hugged to her chest.
“Steve is barely alive,” Dustin says. “He survives on hairspray fumes and poor life choices.”
Max leans on the lockers a few doors down, one boot hooked casually behind the other. She’s wearing her usual uniform of jeans, layered shirts, and an expression that says she’s seen everything and been unimpressed by most of it. A set of headphones hangs around her neck, the cord looped through her fingers.
“Morning, nerds,” she says.
“Morning,” Dustin fires back.
Jane steps closer to Max, face brightening in a way that has softened the redhead’s edges over the last year.
“You are still coming to the mall?” Jane asks, just to be sure. “With Hopper? After school?”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” Max says, straightening. “Got a whole plan. New jeans, maybe a jacket that doesn’t look like Hopper bought it at a yard sale, and if we have time, we’re hitting the music store so I can fix your cassette situation.”
“My cassettes are fine,” Jane says, affronted. “I like the one with the man who yells about money for nothing.”
“Dire Straits,” Max says. “Yeah, that one can stay. But we’re adding some variety. Trust me, it’s for your own good.”
Will can’t help smiling. Seeing Jane with Max still feels like watching someone gently teach a stray cat to accept affection, not that Jane is a cat, exactly, but there’s the same wary start, then slow lean-in.
He fiddles with his locker door, trying to frame the words he needs.
“Hey, Max,” he says, after Dustin and Mike have segued into measured argument over spell slots. “Can I ask you something?”
She arches a brow. “You can try.”
“Nice,” he mutters, then plunges ahead before his courage evaporates. “Eddie wants to start the new campaign next week. Like, actually start it, not just… talk at us for three hours. But stage crew is still going to be insane. If I can’t make the first session… would you maybe sit in? Like, temporarily? Just so he doesn’t stall the whole thing waiting on me?”
Max’s nose wrinkles skeptically.
“You want me to… voluntarily stick myself in a basement with Eddie ‘Monologue’ Munson and his merry band of snack-gremlins,” she says slowly, “so you can go paint wooden houses?”
“When you say it like that—” Will starts.
“Oh, hell no,” Max cuts in. “I am not being sacrificial substitute nerd so you can stress about stage flats. I already have plans. Cool plans. I’m teaching Jane how to skateboard.”
Jane looks up sharply. “You said we would start with balance,” she reminds Max. “No ramps.”
“We’re starting on grass,” Max assures her. “I’m reckless, not suicidal. And anyway, I will tolerate one of you falling on your butt at a time, thanks.”
“I won’t fall,” Jane says, utterly certain.
“You will, but that’s okay,” Max says. “Falling is half the— whatever, we’ll get there. Point is: I am not spending the first official session getting yelled at by Eddie because I don’t know your spell list.”
“You wouldn’t get yelled at,” Mike says, half-listening in now. “He’d just, like, dramatically plead with the universe like you’ve betrayed his vision.”
“Exactly,” Max says.
Will groans internally.
“I just…” He drags a hand through his hair. “I don’t want to screw it up for everyone. Eddie keeps saying he ‘wrote this one for me’ or whatever, and if I’m not there—”
“Then he’ll sulk, eat sixteen Doritos, and reschedule,” Max says bluntly. “Will, you’re allowed to have more than one thing going on. If it means the campaign starts a week late, he’ll live.”
“Will he, though?” Dustin says. “We don’t actually know if he can physically survive postponing drama.”
“He’ll live,” Max repeats, with the confidence of someone who has seen Eddie bounce back from much worse.
Jane tilts her head, studying Will.
“You can still come later,” she says. “For vampires. After the play.”
“I know,” Will says. “It’s just… he’s excited. And I miss it. And I don’t want to walk in late and have everyone be behind because of me.”
Max rolls her eyes, but there’s a glint of understanding there.
“If it makes you feel better, we can, like, power-train someone else,” she says. “But it’s not gonna be me. I like you all, but not enough to voluntarily learn math for fun.”
“It’s not math,” Dustin protests.
“Is there counting?” Max asks.
“Yes,” Dustin says.
“Then it’s math,” she says firmly. “Case closed.”
The bell shrieks overhead, slicing through their half-arguments.
“Come on,” Mike says, slamming his locker shut.
Dustin mutters, but he slings his bag over his shoulder and follows.
Jane glances at Will.
“Hopper said I go straight home after school,” she reminds him quietly. “For the mall. We will not wait for you at the auditorium.”
“I know,” he says. “I’ll… figure out my ride.”
She nods, eyes flicking over his face like she’s checking for cracks.
“You always do,” she says simply, and then she’s gone, swept away down the hall toward history.
Will stares at the hallway for a beat, then forces himself into motion.
The day drags and flies at the same time.
In English, he tries to pay attention to the class discussion about Piggy’s glasses and the “loss of innocence,” but the margins of his notebook fill up with sketches: a rough top-down layout of the Our Town stage, boxes for the houses and church; a quick doodle of a vampire throne room for Eddie; a tiny, almost throwaway drawing of a backwards baseball cap and the curve of a smile.
When the teacher calls on him out of nowhere, Will snaps upright.
“Byers,” the teacher says, peering over his glasses. “Care to share with the class what you’re so intently illustrating back there?”
Heat floods his face. He slams his notebook shut on reflex.
“I—sorry,” he stammers. “Um. I think… the glasses are a symbol of reason? Like, they represent the civilized part of the boys, and when they break, it’s sort of like… the last piece of that breaks too.”
He squints, then nods slowly.
“Good,” he says. “If you can think that clearly while drawing, maybe you should consider a career in political cartooning. Put the sketchbook away until lunch.”
“Yes, sir,” Will murmurs.
He tucks the notebook into his bag, fingers lingering for a second on the worn cardboard cover. Drawing is the thing that keeps his thoughts from spiraling into static, but it also makes him careless; he feels like he’s always getting caught half-in, half-out of his own head.
At least he’d managed a coherent answer. A year ago, he might have just sat there in silence and let the awkwardness swallow him.
In art elective later, things feel more natural. The room smells like paper and tempera paint, and Mr. Clarke moves between easels with quiet encouragement. Will’s project—a series of charcoal studies he’s pretending are “hands in motion” but which are mostly excuses to draw Chance’s fingers gripping a marker, Chance’s hand palming a basketball, Chance’s knuckles resting against a table, sits in front of him like a secret.
He tries to make them generic. Less Chance and more “hand,” in case anyone looks too closely. But his eyes keep remembering specifics: the faint scar along the base of the thumb, the way the veins stand out when he’s tensing his grip.
“It’s good detail,” Clarke says when he pauses behind Will. “You’re looking carefully. That’s half of drawing, you know—teaching yourself to really see.”
Will’s throat feels odd.
“Thanks,” he says.
Clarke moves on, and Will adds more shading to the knuckles, like he can bury recognition under graphite.
Lunch arrives too slowly and then all at once.
He finds the others at their usual table, trays scattered with whatever vaguely edible options the cafeteria has offered up, mystery casserole, fries, a gelatinous approximation of fruit.
Eddie is already there, boots kicked up on the table bench, Hellfire shirt stretched under his denim vest. He’s in full performance mode, hands carving shapes in the air as he talks.
“Okay, listen,” Eddie says the second Will sits down. “You have exactly one week before we descend into gothic glory, and I need to know: are you going wizard again?”
“Hi, Eddie,” Will says, because someone has to.
“Hello, my radiant muse of arcane destruction,” Eddie says, unbothered. “Now answer the question.”
Will pokes at his mashed potatoes.
“I… don’t know yet,” he admits. “I haven’t had time to really think about it.”
“Tragedy,” Eddie groans, leaning back like he’s been struck by lightning. “How am I supposed to tailor the emotional journey of this campaign if my star player is undecided?”
“You have, like, twelve star players,” Mike says. “You call all of us that.”
“That’s because I’m a generous god,” Eddie says loftily. “But Byers here has—” he waves a hand, searching “—vibes.”
“Vibes,” Will repeats.
“Yes. Haunted wizard vibes,” Eddie says. “Listen, I’m not saying the entire spine of the narrative rests on your shoulders or anything, but, like…” He wiggles his fingers ominously. “It kind of does.”
Dustin snorts. “You literally told me yesterday the whole thing hinges on whether my artificer can craft a cursed chandelier.”
“A chandelier is set dressing,” Eddie says. “The wizard is pathos.”
“Can pathos play from the stage?” Will asks weakly. “Because I’m pretty sure Mrs. Worthington’s going to have us working late some of those nights.”
Eddie’s face immediately shifts from theatrical offense to something more like real disappointment.
“Right,” he says. “The play.” He drums his fingers on the table, thinking. “Okay. Here’s what we’re gonna do. Next week, we’re starting, whether Worthington likes it or not. If you can’t be there the very first session, we do the prologue without you. We set the mood, establish the villains, do the opening scene in the creepy chapel. Then when you show up—” his eyes light “—dramatic entrance.”
“I am sensing a theme,” Lucas says. “Have you considered subtlety, Eddie?”
“Subtlety is for cowards,” Eddie says. “I have considered it and rejected it.”
Will chews the inside of his cheek.
“What if I can’t make it for a few sessions?” he asks quietly. “We’re painting the whole town. It’s a lot. I don’t want to keep everyone waiting just because—”
“Hey.” Eddie leans forward, expression suddenly serious in a way that’s almost scarier than the jokes. “You are not ‘keeping everyone waiting.’ You’re doing something you love. That’s not… a crime, man. I’ll work around it. We always do. Worst case, we start at level one with the others and do your stuff when you’re free.”
Dustin makes a small strangled noise.
“Level one?” he says. “Eddie, you promised me high-level spells.”
“You’ll get your high-level nonsense,” Eddie says. “Calm down, Henderson.”
Max, across the table, catches Will’s eye and flicks a fry at him.
“See?” she says. “Told you he wouldn’t die.”
“He looks like he might,” Mike mutters, watching Eddie rub at his temple.
“That’s just his face,” Lucas says.
Will manages a laugh. The knot in his chest loosens a little.
He still feels caught between worlds,between the darkness of Eddie’s upstairs Hellfire lair and the bright, echoing stage where Mrs. Worthington demands “universality”—but knowing Eddie isn’t going to throw a fit if he’s not there on day one helps.
Still, as the lunch period winds down and people start packing up, Will jots a quick note to himself on the back of his hand.
Find backup so they’re not stuck.
He doesn’t know yet what that will look like. But the thought of walking into the basement a week late and finding everyone stalled and irritated because of him still makes his stomach twist.
He taps his pen against his knuckles, the ink forming a faint gray dot on his skin.
There has to be a way to be in two places at once.
Or at least to make sure both places keep moving without him.
The afternoon moves on: math, where Jane turns and flashes him a tiny thumbs-up when Kopec hands back her geometry homework with a rare, grudging “Good”; history, where Max passes Jane a note that appears to be a frankly terrifying stick-figure representation of skateboarding injuries with little arrows that say things like pad here and helmet or death; science, where they watch a filmstrip about tectonic plates that looks like it was made in 1963.
By the time the last bell rings, the hallway outside his locker is a crowded river.
Jane appears at his elbow with her backpack already zipped.
“Hopper is in the parking lot,” she says. “He has the list.”
“What list?” Will asks, swapping out his textbooks for his sketchbook and the folder with Mrs. Worthington’s scene breakdowns.
“The mall list,” she says, like it should be obvious. “For school clothes. And socks.” She glances past him. “Max is meeting us there. She said she has a ‘mission.’”
“I’m scared,” Will says honestly.
“You should be,” Max says, appearing from the opposite direction, board under one arm, headphones tangling with her hair.
“I thought we were getting pretzels,” Jane says, momentarily thrown.
“We are,” Max says. “Pretzels, orange sugar drink, and maybe a hat that doesn’t scream ‘my dad is my stylist.’ No offense, Hop.”
“Offense taken,” Hopper says from the doorway, where he’s leaning with his arms crossed. “I happen to have impeccable taste.”
“You own three shirts,” Max says. “Two of them are plaid.”
“Plaid is classic,” Hopper protests.
Jane bounces on the balls of her feet, caught between them.
“Have fun,” Will says, adjusting his bag.
“I will,” she says. “Do not get lost in the theater."
“I’ll try,” he says.
Hopper peers over.
“You good on rides?” he asks. “We’ll be back late. Joyce is closing, Jonathan’s at the lab. If Worthington tries to keep you past five, tell her no.”
“Yeah,” Will says, even though he’s not as sure as he sounds. “We talked about it. I’ll… call if anything.”
“Good,” Hopper says. “Don’t let them work you to death. That’s illegal. Probably.”
“It definitely is,” Max says.
Jane reaches out and squeezes Will’s wrist briefly.
“See you at home,” she says. “I’ll show you my new socks.”
“Can’t wait,” he says, smiling.
Then they’re gone in a flurry of denim and flannel, and the hallway feels a little emptier without their noise.
Will slings his backpack on both shoulders and heads toward the auditorium.
Stage crew has already claimed the stage by the time he gets there. The place smells like paint and sawdust and whatever weird cleaner the janitors use on the floor: sharp, almost citrus, with a chemical bite.
The backdrop looms at the back of the stage, Grover’s Corners slowly becoming a real town one brushstroke at a time. Today, they’re working on the sky and finishing the shading on the church. Jane’s earlier fences are lined neatly along the wings, waiting to be wheeled into place like soldiers.
“William!” Mrs. Worthington calls the moment he steps into the wings, as if she’s been lying in wait. Her scarf today is a dramatic swirl of deep purple, and she has specks of white paint on her reading glasses. “Our visionary. You’re just in time. We’re marrying the sky to the streets.”
Will bites back a smile.
“What do you want me on?” he asks.
“Clouds,” she says promptly. “I don’t want cartoon puffs. I want… memory. Mood. The kind of clouds that make you feel like something is about to happen and you’re not sure if it’s good or bad.”
“Ambiguous clouds,” Will says. “Got it.”
She presses a palette and a big, soft brush into his hands and steers him toward the towering canvas.
As he climbs the short ladder to reach the upper edge, he can feel the familiar shift, his brain sliding into the quiet, focused space where the rest of the world blurs at the edges. Up here, the worries about Hellfire and games and car rides shrink down to little dots somewhere below the horizon line.
He mixes gray into the blue, lightening and darkening by degrees, laying in soft shapes, then feathering out the edges with a dry brush. The clouds become layered, some barely there, more implied than painted, others thickening near the top as if a storm might be just out of frame.
Below, crew members move flats and test lighting cues. Someone rolls a ladder across stage left with a crash that makes everyone flinch. A lighting kid argues with another over gel colors.
Will works until his shoulders ache.
At some point, Mrs. Worthington floats back through, makes an appreciative noise at the sky, and just says, “Yes. Yes. That,” before flitting away to scold someone about stapling too close to the edge of a flat.
Time slips.
He’s shading the underside of a cloud when a small, nasty thought intrudes: You’re going to miss the campaign. You’re going to miss the game. You’re going to be up on this ladder while everyone else is living actual life.
He pauses, brush hovering.
The ladder wobbles slightly as someone moves a flat beneath him, and he grabs the top rung, heart stumbling.
Focus, he tells himself. One thing at a time.
Clouds first.
Then everything else.
He finishes the section he’s on before climbing down, legs a little rubbery. When he checks the clock hanging on the back wall of the auditorium, his stomach drops.
4:52.
He’s supposed to be out of here by five.
He wipes his brush on a rag and goes in search of Mrs. Worthington, dodging a kid carrying an armful of fake gravestones.
He finds her center stage, mid-lecture to a knot of actors about “internalizing the inevitability of death.” She pauses only long enough to give him a bright, expectant look.
“How’s the sky?” she asks.
“Moody,” he says. “Ambiguous. Possibly threatening.”
“Perfect,” she says. “What can I do for you, dear?”
He shifts his weight.
“Um. I actually… need to leave at five,” he says, forcing the words out before he can lose his nerve. “My family, they’re all busy tonight, so I don’t have a ride if I stay later. I can make up the hours tomorrow.”
For a moment he braces for pushback: the familiar art demands sacrifice speech, the guilt trip about commitment.
Mrs. Worthington just tuts sympathetically.
“Oh, no, no, we can’t have you stranded,” she says. “This is theater, not indentured servitude. You absolutely may leave at five.” She waves her clipboard like a wand. “We will muddle through without you for one afternoon.”
Relief washes through him so fast his knees almost unlock.
“Thanks,” he says. “I just… wanted to make sure.”
“Of course,” she says. “I’d rather not have your mother storm the castle, as she so charmingly put it last time we spoke.” Her eyes twinkle behind her smudged glasses. “And besides, sometimes the best thing you can do for your art is go home, have a meal, and think about something else."
Will doubts he’ll be thinking about anything but art—just… not only this art—but he nods.
He checks the clock again: 4:56.
If he hustles, he can call Joyce at the store before her shift starts proper, or catch Jonathan at the lab, see if he’s done early, or—
“Go,” Mrs. Worthington says, already turning back to her actors. “Fly, my boy. Before I think of something else for you to shade.”
He doesn’t need to be told twice.
The pay phone stands in the main hallway near the front doors, a metal box bolted to the wall with a scratched plexiglass hood over it. The handset is slightly sticky, the cord twisted into a mess. There’s a faint smell of metal and old gum.
Will digs in his pocket for change as he walks, coming up with a few nickels and a quarter he’s pretty sure he stole from the couch cushions.
The hallway is mostly empty now; most kids have already left or migrated to sports and clubs. The distant echo of shouting from the gym filters down the corridor, along with the squeak of sneakers.
He feeds the coins into the slot and dials the store where Joyce is working, the numbers so familiar he doesn’t have to look.
It rings. Twice. Three times.
Then the bored voice of the front counter girl answers and, after a brief exchange, informs him that Joyce “just went into the back” and “won’t be out for a while, sweetie.”
“Okay,” he says, throat tight. “Can you tell her Will called? I’m just gonna walk.”
He hangs up and chews the inside of his cheek. Walking home is an option; it’s not that far, and he does it most mornings. But it’s colder now, and dusk comes quicker. And after a few hours on ladders, his legs feel like they’ve been replaced with someone else’s.
He considers calling Jonathan next, but remembers his brother’s work schedule. He’ll be covered in chemicals and film strips, elbow-deep in trays.
He’s about to dig for another coin anyway, just in case, when a voice carries down the hall.
“Byers? That you?”
He turns, hand still on the phone.
Chance is jogging toward him, hair damp at the temples, green and gold jacket slung over one shoulder now that practice is done. His t-shirt underneath is dark with sweat between his shoulder blades. A basketball is tucked under his other arm, and there’s a strip of athletic tape wrapped around two fingers.
The sight of him hits Will like a small, sharp shock.
“Uh. Yeah,” he says. “Hey.”
Chance slows as he reaches him, shifting the ball to his hip.
“You ghosted on us,” he says, mock-wounded. “No banner-prep today?”
“Stage crew,” Will says, holding up paint-stained fingers. “Worthington wanted me to finish the sky.”
“Ah,” Chance says sagely. “Cloud duty. Serious stuff.”
“Yeah,” Will says. “Very… nebulous.”
Chance stares at him, then bursts out laughing, the sound echoing off the linoleum.
“Did you—did you just make a cloud pun?” he demands.
“I’m tired,” Will says, mortified.
“No, no, that was great,” Chance says. “I’m honored to witness this side of you.”
Will wants to sink into the floor.
“Anyway,” he says, gesturing weakly with the receiver, “I was just trying to get a ride. My mom’s at work, my brother’s stuck at the lab, and Hopper’s at the mall with Jane and Max. So. I think I’m stuck walking.”
Chance shifts his weight, fingers drumming lightly on the basketball’s surface.
“Walking from here?” he asks, brow creasing. “In this cold? That sucks.”
“It’s not that bad,” Will lies. “I usually walk or bike in the mornings. I just… wasn’t planning on it tonight, I guess.”
Chance chews on the inside of his cheek for a second, thinking.
“Where do you live again?” he asks.
“Um.” Will squints. “The Byers place? On Mirkwood. The… one with the weird mailbox and the fence that leans a little.”
“Oh, I know that street,” Chance says. “I live off Maple, it’s not far. I can drive you.”
Will’s brain blanks.
“Drive me?” he repeats.
“Yeah,” Chance says, like it’s obvious. “I’ve got my car. You don’t have to hoof it.”
He says it so casually, as if offering to lend a pencil. Like this is a normal thing, jocks offering rides to stage crew kids at the end of the day.
Will stares for a beat too long.
“I—are you sure?” he manages. “You don’t have to do that. I’m out of your way, probably, and—”
Chance rolls his eyes like Will has just suggested he carry him home on his back.
“It’s ten extra minutes, tops,” he says. “I’ve got nothing else going on except homework I’m going to pretend doesn’t exist. Come on. Let me be a Good Samaritan or whatever.”
Will’s heart is doing something weird and fluttery in his chest.
“You know how to drive?” he blurts, because his filter has apparently left the building.
Chance’s mouth curves.
“Wow, thanks for the vote of confidence,” he says. “Yeah, I know how to drive. Taught myself. Stick shift, too.” There’s a little swagger in the way he says it; then it softens into nervousness. “I could, uh, teach you. I mean—only if you don’t know already. And if you… wanted to be taught.”
Will has absolutely never been more aware of his own face.
“I— I don’t,” he stammers. “I mean, I don’t know how. Yet. Drive, I mean. Not that I don’t— want to. I just—”
Chance’s grin widens, the edges turning a little shy.
“Cool,” he says. “Then, you know. If you ever get bored of walking in the snow, I can… show you sometime. Big empty parking lot, no cops.”
Will’s laugh comes out a little breathless.
“I’m leaning into it. Look, are you coming or what?” He jerks his thumb toward the front doors. “My car’s freezing and lonely.”
Will hesitates only one more second, long enough for the old, ingrained voice in his head to mutter something about how this is a bad idea, jocks don’t do things for free, you don’t belong in that world before he shuts it up.
“Okay,” he says. “Yeah. Thanks.”
Chance’s shoulders relax like he’d been holding something tense there.
“Cool,” he says again. “Come on.”
Chance’s car is not what Will expects.
He’s picturing some spotless, shiny thing like the upperclassmen drive,Camaro, maybe, or a Trans Am. Instead, the vehicle waiting near the edge of the lot is a sun-faded blue Chevy Nova that looks like it’s survived at least three minor apocalypses. There’s a dent in the rear bumper, one hubcap is missing, and the passenger door has a patch of primer where the paint’s wearing off.
But there’s also a string of plastic dice hanging from the rearview mirror, a stack of cassette tapes spilling out of the console, and a crumpled fast food bag on the floor.
“I know, she’s a beauty,” Chance says with exaggerated pride as they approach. “Try to contain your jealousy.”
“I like her,” Will says, and realizes he means it.
The car looks… lived-in. Not like a trophy. More like a person. Scratched, a little awkward, but still going.
Chance clicks the lock up from the inside and pushes the passenger door open for him.
“Mind the… everything,” he warns. “I’ve been meaning to clean it out since, like, July.”
Will steps over a pile of gym socks, their smell contained in a plastic shopping bag, and a battered pair of sneakers. He slides onto the cracked vinyl seat, his backpack on his lap, and pulls the door shut.
The interior smells like a mix of gas station air freshener, sweat, and that faint citrus soap again. The plastic dice knock lightly together as the car shifts.
Chance tosses the basketball into the back and drops into the driver’s seat with easy familiarity, pushing the seat back with his knees. He slams the door, jams the key into the ignition, and the engine turns over with a rough cough before settling into a low rumble.
“You sure this thing is road-legal?” Will asks, half-teasing.
“Hey, don’t insult her,” Chance says, patting the dashboard. “She’s temperamental, but she’s loyal.”
Will laughs.
“So you really taught yourself?” he asks, nodding at the gearshift.
“Yeah,” Chance says, putting it into reverse. “My uncle showed me the basics in his truck. Then I stolen-borrowed this baby from the lot down at Miller’s when I was fifteen and spent an entire summer stalling it in the church parking lot until I figured it out.”
“That seems… dangerous,” Will says.
“It was heavily supervised by Jesus,” Chance says. “Pretty sure he wasn’t thrilled, but we came to an understanding.”
Will shakes his head, grinning despite himself.
Chance glances sideways at him as he eases out of the parking spot.
“I’m serious about teaching you, by the way,” he says, more quietly now. “Driving, I mean. It’s not as scary as it looks. Once you’re in gear, it feels like… I don’t know. Like the road is just… there for you.”
Will swallows.
“Yeah?” he says.
“Yeah,” Chance says. “Plus, then you don’t have to rely on everybody else’s schedules, you know?” His fingers drum lightly on the steering wheel. “Feels good to just… go when you want. Where you want.”
The words land somewhere deep in Will’s chest, heavier than they should. The idea of not having to ask for rides, not having to coordinate with Hopper’s shifts and Joyce’s overtime and Jonathan’s lab hours… it sounds like breathing in a bigger room.
He glances at the stick shift, the plastic knob smooth and worn.
“I’d probably stall it a thousand times,” he says.
“Everybody stalls a thousand times,” Chance says. “That’s part of the deal. You grind the gears, curse a little, hope nobody you know is watching, and then… eventually, you’re just doing it. Feet and hands and brain all working together.” He shrugs, then smirks. “You’d be fine. You’ve got good timing.”
“From watching me not trip over the paint cans?” Will says.
“From watching you catch the passes in gym when you think nobody’s looking,” Chance says lightly. “You’ve got better reflexes than half the guys on the team.”
Will feels his face heat; he hadn’t realized Chance noticed him at all in gym, let alone enough to form an opinion.
He looks out the window, watching the school recede as they pull out onto the main road. Trees blur by, leaves just starting to turn properly red and gold, scattered piles of them in the ditches.
“So,” Chance says after a moment, flicking on the turn signal. “Game’s Friday.”
Will huffs a quiet laugh.
“I noticed,” he says. “There are, like, thirty flyers around school. In case anyone missed the memo.”
“Subtlety is for the chess club,” Chance says. “We’re not above begging for an audience.”
Will glances over at him.
“I thought you said the gym gets packed no matter what,” he says.
“It does,” Chance says. “You get the usual crowd. Parents, band geeks, people who just want an excuse to scream for an hour. But I meant…” He shrugs, searching for words. “I meant it’d be cool if you were there.”
The world seems to narrow to the space inside the car: the low hum of the engine, the soft hiss of the heater, the faint drum of rain starting against the windshield.
“Why?” Will asks before he can stop himself. The question comes out smaller and more vulnerable than he intended.
Chance’s hands tighten slightly on the wheel, knuckles whitening for a second.
“Because you helped with the banner,” he says eventually, like he’s drawing from the safer pile of truths first. “Because, like, half the stuff going up in that gym is gonna be yours. And because Lucas looks like a little kid when his friends show up and I’m a sucker for that.” He pauses, then adds, quieter, “And because it’s nice having somebody there who… doesn’t just see you as the jersey.”
Will’s chest does a weird, soft ache thing.
“I mean, I’m not going to pretend I understand the finer points of… whatever you guys are doing out there,” he says, to cover the way his heart jumps at that last part. “I can barely tell a good play from a bad one.”
“You saw Lucas sink that three the other day,” Chance says. “You know more than you think. And honestly, you don’t have to understand all the math of it.” He flicks him a grin. “That’s my job. You can just, like, be there. Exist. Maybe judge the banners. Make sure my R’s don’t look like they’re dying.”
Will picks at a loose thread on his backpack strap.
“I still don’t know if I can come,” he says quietly. “We might have rehearsal. And if not, Eddie’s probably going to want to do more prep. And I…” He trails off.
You’re scared, his brain supplies. Not of the game, exactly. Of stepping into that bright, loud space and realizing you don’t belong. Of hoping for something and then feeling stupid for hoping.
Chance nods, like he understands all the words Will didn’t say.
“That’s okay,” he says. “I get it. Life’s… busy.” He shifts in his seat. “Look, no pressure, seriously. But if you can come? Even for a half, or ten minutes, or to just stick your head in and laugh at the mascot costume? I’ll… I’ll be glad you’re there.”
Will swallows against the lump rising in his throat.
“I’ll try,” he says. “I mean it.”
Chance’s smile is small but bright, like someone turning on a light in the next room.
“That’s all I wanted to hear,” he says.
For a while they ride in silence, the kind that’s surprisingly comfortable. The car’s engine hums, the wipers squeak as they drag across the glass when Chance flicks them on against a light drizzle. The town rolls past: the gas station with the flickering sign, the convenience store with the always-crooked “OPEN” placard, the little park with its swing set and perpetually empty merry-go-round.
“So, uh,” Chance says, breaking the quiet just as it starts to edge toward awkward. “Explain this whole... vampire thing, right?What’s your character gonna be?” Chance asks, glancing over.
Will turns his head.
“Assuming Eddie lets you pick and doesn’t assign you something tragic like, I don’t know, a bard.”
“Bards aren’t tragic,” Will protests automatically. “They’re just… misunderstood.”
“That sounded like a personal thing,” Chance says, amused.
Will shrugs.
“I usually play casters, my whole character revolves around being 'will the wise'” he says. “Magic. Big spells. This time, maybe something different.” He hesitates, then adds, “I kind of want to draw them first. Sometimes the drawing tells me who they are.”
Chance’s lips quirk.
“Of course it does,” he says. “You ever draw people you know as characters?”
Will’s stomach flips.
“Sometimes,” he says cautiously. “If they let me.”
He doesn’t mention the sketchbook pages full of Chance in half-finished armor, Chance in a cloak with a bow across his back, Chance with a sword resting on his shoulder.
“Maybe you can draw me sometime,” Chance says, so offhand it almost doesn’t land. “Like, if I was in your… what is it, a campaign? See what kind of guy I’d be.”
Will looks at him properly then, really looks.
Sun-faded blue car, plastic dice on the mirror, athletic tape around his fingers, a boy who taught himself to drive stick in a church parking lot and fumbles his words when he offers driving lessons.
“I already know,” Will says softly, before he can stop himself.
Chance glances over, eyebrows raised.
“Yeah?” he says. “What am I?”
Will’s brain scrambles.
“A… ranger, probably,” he blurts. “Or a fighter with, um, good ranged stats. Fast on your feet. Good aim.” His voice steadies as he leans into the safer territory of game mechanics. “You side with the underdog. You talk too much. You’d definitely try to convince the villain to switch sides instead of just, like, stabbing them.”
Chance laughs, delighted.
“Wow, you got all that from watching me almost eat it on a layup?” he says.
Will smiles, a little self-conscious. “From watching you give Lucas crap and then… help him run drills after everyone else leaves,” he says. “And from the way you panic when letters aren’t straight on a banner.”
Chance opens his mouth, then shuts it again, like he’s not sure what to do with that level of observation.
“Well,” he says eventually, a bit rough around the edges. “If I ever roll up a character, I’m calling you first. You can be my… what do they call it? Consultant. Art department. Casting agent.”
“All three,” Will says.
“Multiclass,” Chance says.
They grin at each other, and it feels like someone’s nudged the universe just a little bit sideways into a configuration that fits better.
“You said Mirkwood, right?” Chance asks after a moment, glancing ahead as they turn onto a familiar street. The houses here are smaller, some with peeling paint, most with bikes or toys in the yard. There’s a crooked mailbox halfway down, the letters BYERS faintly visible through flaking white.
“Yeah,” Will says, pointing. “That’s us. The leaning fence is a landmark.”
“I see it,” Chance says, pulling toward the curb. He eases the car into park with practiced motion. The engine idles for a second, then he twists the key and the motor coughs off, leaving a sudden, almost shocking quiet.
For a beat, neither of them moves.
Then Will fumbles with his backpack strap.
“Thanks for the ride,” he says, trying to keep how much it meant from showing in his voice. “You, uh. Saved me from becoming a popsicle.”
“Anytime,” Chance says. “Seriously. If you’re ever stuck after practice or whatever, just… look for the ugly blue Nova. She’s hard to miss.”
“I like her,” Will says again, without thinking.
Chance ducks his head, a small smile tugging at his mouth.
“She likes you too,” he says. “She only makes that wheezing noise when she’s nervous.”
As if on cue, the car gives one last creak as it settles.
Will hesitates with his hand on the door handle.
“About the driving thing,” he says. “Teaching me. Were you… serious?”
Chance’s eyes flick to his.
“Yeah,” he says simply. “I was.”
Will swallows.
“Okay,” he says. “Maybe… after the game. Or… whenever. We could… go to that church parking lot.”
Chance’s grin returns in full force.
Will laughs, the sound bubbling up easier than he expects.
“See you tomorrow,” he says, finally opening the door.
“See you, Byers,” Chance says quietly. Then, after a beat, “Hey.”
Will pauses, half-out of the car.
“Yeah?”
“Game’s at seven,” Chance says. “Friday. In case you… needed the specifics.”
Will feels his heart do that silly little stutter again.
“I’ll… remember,” he says.
He steps out into the cool air and shuts the door carefully, lifting a hand in an awkward half-wave.
Chance taps the steering wheel in a little return salute and, a moment later, backs away from the curb, the Nova’s engine grumbling as it pulls off down the street.
Will stands there for a second, watching the taillights until they disappear.
Then he turns toward the house.
The Byers-Hopper house is unusually quiet when he steps inside.
No TV blaring. No radio. Just the tick of the wall clock in the living room and the faint hum of the fridge.
There’s a note on the kitchen table in Joyce’s looping handwriting:
LEFT EARLY FOR SHIFT – HOPPER HAS THE GIRLS, JONATHAN AT THE LAB.
LEFTOVER PASTA IN FRIDGE. DON’T EAT JUST POP-TARTS.
LOVE YOU. – MOM
There’s another note underneath in Hopper’s sharp scrawl:
TOOK MAX & JANE TO MALL. IF YOU’RE HOME BEFORE US, DON’T TOUCH THE ICE CREAM. THAT’S FOR “REWARDING GOOD CONSUMER BEHAVIOR” APPARENTLY.
Someone, probably Jane, has added a tiny smiley face between the notes, drawn in blue pen.
Will snorts softly, dropping his backpack by the wall. The house feels bigger without the usual noise, the silence pressing in on his ears.
He grabs a glass of water from the sink and wanders into the living room.
The coffee table is covered in one of Jonathan’s photography magazines and a stack of mail. The couch still has the indent from where Hopper probably sat earlier, lacing up his boots and complaining about the mall.
Will drops down into that spot, stretching his legs out, and lets his head fall back against the cushion.
For the first time all day, he has… nothing immediately assigned to him. No clouds to paint, no triangles to solve, no banners to rescue from terrible letters. Just him and the quiet and the knowledge that in a week, Eddie’s campaign is supposed to begin, and on Friday there’s a basketball game he might actually have to make a decision about.
The thought presses in again, heavy and familiar: you’re going to hold them back. If you’re not there, Eddie will stall. If you are, you’ll be distracted, thinking about brushstrokes and bleachers. If you go to the game, you’ll be thinking about the campaign. If you skip it, you’ll be thinking about green and gold and an empty section of bleachers where you could have sat.
You can’t be everywhere.
A fly buzzes lazily against the window for a second, then disappears.
Will sits up abruptly.
You can’t be everywhere, he thinks, but maybe someone else can be there when you’re not.
He remembers a younger girl in Scoops Ahoy’s back room, eyes sharp as knives, calling them nerds and then, slowly, grudgingly, joining their games. Erika Sinclair, who never did anything halfway. Who’d picked up the mechanics of D&D faster than most of the boys who’d been playing for years.
He fumbles for the phone on the side table. It’s the same clunky beige model they’ve had for years, the cord twisted in a permanent figure eight.
He dials Lucas’s number from memory.
It rings. Once. Twice.
“Sinclair residence,” a woman answers, a little breathless, like she was caught mid-task.
“Hi, Mrs. Sinclair,” Will says. “It’s, um, Will. Byers.”
“Will!” she says, instantly warmer. “How are you, honey?”
“I’m good,” he lies by reflex. “Is Lucas there?”
“He’s out back,” she says. “Hold on, I’ll get him. Erica! Get your brother, and don’t you slam that—”
The rest of the sentence gets swallowed by the clunk of the receiver being set down on a table.
Muffled chaos ensues on the other end: a door opening, someone yelling about “my socks,” and what sounds like a brief argument about who’s supposed to be doing what.
Finally, a familiar voice comes on the line, slightly out of breath.
“Yo,” Lucas says. “Will? That you?”
“Yeah,” Will says, tucking the cord around his fingers. “Sorry, did I catch you in the middle of something?”
“Nah, I was just destroying Dustin at HORSE in the driveway,” Lucas says. “He claims the wind’s cheating. What’s up?”
“I, uh… had a question,” Will says. “About the campaign. And… Erica.”
There’s a pause.
“What about her?” Lucas asks cautiously, like he’s bracing for a complaint.
“You said she has a character,” Will says. “Lady… Applejack?”
From somewhere in the background, a voice shrieks, “DON’T YOU DARE SAY HER NAME WRONG,” followed by a slam and the sound of someone wrestling the phone.
“Gimme that,” Erica hisses, and then her voice comes through the line, sharp and clear. “Who is this?”
“It’s Will,” he says, startled into a laugh. “Hi.”
“Oh,” she says, switching from attack mode to mild curiosity at lightning speed.
“I am begging you not to psychoanalyze my friends, Erica,” he mutters. “Give me the phone back—”
“No,” she snaps, then, directly into the receiver, “What do you want?”
He clears his throat.
“Uh. I heard you made a character,” he says. “Lady Applejack?”
Her voice immediately gains about ten decibels of pride.
“Lady Applejack, a powerful level fourteen chaotic good half-elf rogue,” she recites like she’s reading it off a card. “She is elegant, ruthless, and the only one at that table who knows how to plan ahead.”
“I plan,” Dustin protests faintly in the background.
“You panic,” Erica says. “Anyway. Why?”
Will smiles helplessly.
“I was just… wondering if you’d be interested in… I don’t know. Playing more,” he says. “Eddie’s uh starting a new campaign next week. And I might not be able to be there for every session, because of the play. I don’t want to hold everyone back. So I thought… maybe if Lady Applejack were there, she could carry some of the… narrative weight. Or whatever.”
He winces at his own wording, but Erica does not laugh. In fact, she sounds almost insulted on his behalf.
“You think they can’t play without you?” she demands. “That’s dumb.”
“I just— Eddie built a lot of it around my character,” Will says. “If I’m not there, he’ll stall. And everyone else will get stuck. I don’t want that.”
Erica sniffs.
“Sounds like a you problem,” she says. “But. Lady Applejack does not like to see campaigns flounder under weak leadership.” There’s a rustle, like she’s standing up straighter. “I will consider it.”
From the background, Lucas yells, “You will what? You’re not hijacking Hellfire, Erica—”
She covers the receiver, but not well enough to muffle her retort.
“If Eddie can’t handle having a girl at the table, that’s his problem,” she says. Then she’s back in Will’s ear. “I already told them what she is,” she adds. “Half-elf rogue, expert in infiltration, deception, and stabbing people in the back who deserve it. And she has a horse.”
“A horse?” Will repeats, charmed.
“A magical horse,” Erica corrects. “With a better name than Lady Applejack, but I haven’t decided that yet.” She pauses. “If I play, I’m not being anyone’s backup. I’m there to win. Got it?”
Will feels something in his chest unclench.
“Got it,” he says. “That’s… actually perfect. If you’re there, even if I’m late or can’t show up one week, the story’ll keep going. Eddie will have someone to yell dramatic speeches at.”
“He already does,” she says. “He loves to yell at Dustin. But, yeah. I’ll keep them in line. For a price.”
“A price,” Will repeats, amused and only a little scared.
“I want more snacks,” Erica says. “Better snacks. And I want to pick the music sometimes. I’m not listening to ten hours of shrieking guitars. Deal?”
“I’m not in charge of snacks,” Will says, laughing, “but I can talk to Eddie. I’m pretty sure he’d let Lady Applejack call the shots if it means you show up.”
“You better,” she says. “Or I’ll start my own club. With better branding.”
Lucas finally wrestles the phone away; there’s a brief scuffle, a “Ow, watch the hair,” and then his voice comes back on, slightly out of breath.
“Sorry,” Lucas says. “She’s… Erica.”
“I like her,” Will says honestly.
Lucas groans.
“Don’t encourage her,” he says. “What did you say to her, man? She looks like she’s planning a coup.”
“Maybe she is,” Will says. “But it’s a coup that might save Eddie’s campaign. If she plays more, he can start without me, and I can join when stage crew calms down. Nobody has to wait around.”
Lucas is quiet for a second.
“That… actually makes sense,” he says grudgingly. “As long as she doesn’t try to kill us all and take our loot.”
“She probably will,” Will says. “But at least you’ll go out in style.”
“Great,” Lucas sighs. “Death by little sister. Just how I always pictured my heroic end.”
They lapse into easier chatter: Lucas asks about the set, Will tells him about the clouds and the gravestones; Will asks about practice, Lucas complains about Coach’s obsession with suicides. The conversation winds from there to Friday’s game, looping back inevitably.
“You coming?” Lucas asks in the middle of describing a new play. “Like, actually? You don’t have to, but—”
“I’m trying,” Will says. “Worthington knows she can’t keep me late that night. And Chance offered me a ride. So… probably. For at least some of it.”
Lucas’ whoop of delight is loud enough that Will has to hold the receiver away from his ear.
“Hell yes,” Lucas says. “Okay, okay, don’t make a big thing of it, but… I’m really glad. It’s gonna be cool having you there. And, you know. If you get bored, you can always make fun of my free-throw percentage.”
“As long as you don’t make fun of me for not knowing what the hell is happening,” Will says.
“I’ll explain it in terms of D&D,” Lucas says. “Basketball is just, like, a series of contested rolls, anyway.”
The idea works its way under Will’s skin, calming something raw.
“Yeah,” he says. “Okay. That… I can understand.”
They hang up a few minutes later with a promise to meet up before first period tomorrow. Will sets the receiver gently back in its cradle.
The house is still quiet, but it feels less oppressive now. There’s a plan forming: Erica at the table to keep the story going, Lucas on the court, Chance under the basket, the set steadily becoming a town where people live and love and die.
He’s still not sure how he’s going to balance all of it. But for the first time, it doesn’t feel impossible.
He wanders back to his room, grabs his sketchbook from his backpack, and flops onto the bed.
For a moment he just looks at the blank page, the weight of the pencil in his fingers. Then he starts to draw.
He sketches the stage first, rough outlines of the church and fences, the sky stretching up and off the edge of the paper.
In the corner, he draws a round table, a scattering of dice, the curve of someone’s hand reaching for them,slim fingers, a pinky ring, a stack of character sheets.
He adds a second figure, the outline of a girl with a high ponytail and a tiny crown tilted rakishly on her head. Lady Applejack, he decides, with a smirk that could level an army.
And above it all, almost as an afterthought, he sketches the hint of bleachers: rows of lines, little scribbled circles for heads. In one, he puts a baseball cap drawn backward. In the one next to it, a messy bowl of hair.
Two boys, side by side, watching the same game.
He sits back, pencil resting against his lip, and lets the lines swim in front of his eyes.
There are still too many moving parts. Stage crew. Campaign. Game. People who want different pieces of him.
But looking down at the page, at least they’re all on the same paper.
The front door bangs open downstairs, followed by laughter and the thud of multiple sets of feet.
Will smiles, closing the sketchbook around the new drawing.
The house fills up again: voices, footsteps, the rustle of shopping bags, the smell of pretzels and some overly sweet drink drifting up from the kitchen.
He slides the sketchbook under his pillow for now, a secret anchor.
Tomorrow, there will be more clouds to paint, more banners to fix, more practice schedules to navigate.
Friday, there will be a game.
Next week, vampires.