Chapter Text
September 1993, New York City
Mike was not in his element. He stood in one of Columbia’s older lecture halls, which felt more like a museum than a classroom. The ceilings rose high above him, ribbed with dark wooden beams that stood at odds with the flickering fluorescent lights. Tall arched windows lined one wall, their heavy velvet curtains half-drawn, muting the early evening sun into a tired, amber glow. Paintings of various distinguished alumni lined the walls, sporting identical black robes and austere expressions.
Between moving into his new apartment and attending the seemingly endless schedule of welcome events at Columbia, he had barely stopped to take a breath since arriving in New York two days ago. He had been looking forward to it all summer. In this moment, however, any excitement he had for embarking on this new life in the Big City was eclipsed by social anxiety.
Mike was talking to a girl called Kellie - or was it Callie? The girl had heroically exited a group conversation to approach Mike when she saw him standing by himself. Mike was grateful, and assumed that she did this out of pity, typically oblivious to the fact that she was clearly trying to flirt with him. She was pretty, with blue eyes and dark blonde hair that fell almost to her waist. His father would have called her a keeper. Mike forced a polite smile, feeling nothing.
“I’m just really glad they paired us in small workshops,” Kellie was saying, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I heard last year they had, like, twenty people in one section and it was basically a blood sport.”
Mike nodded, avoiding eye contact. “Yeah. That sounds… intense.”
“I mean, I love feedback,” she continued, leaning in slightly as if they were sharing a secret, “but some of these people seem terrifying. Did you meet that guy in the linen suit? He said he’s working on a ‘post-structuralist interrogation of Midwestern silence.’”
Mike blinked. “Right.”
She laughed, bright and easy. “What are you working on? I didn’t catch it earlier.”
“Oh, um. Fiction,” he said, immediately aware of how unhelpful that was.
She smiled patiently. “Well, yes. We’re all fiction.”
He flushed. “Sorry. Sci-fi, mostly.” He could have sworn the old men in the paintings chuckled as he said this.
Kellie’s eyebrows lifted, impressed rather than skeptical. “That’s cool. I haven’t read much sci-fi but I’m a big fan of dystopian novels! Have you read any Atwood? I just adore her. Hopefully there will be some books by women on the syllabi, although I won’t hold my breath. God, I’m babbling, aren’t I? Anyway, where did you say you were from, again?”
Mike opened his mouth to answer, but was suddenly distracted by a man across the room. His stomach lurched familiarly, as it did every time he saw someone who vaguely resembled his best friend Will. It had been almost four agonizing years since they last spoke, and Mike knew that there is probably a statute of limitations on the “best friend” title, but then, he had never been very good at letting things go.
Rationally, of course, it was unlikely that this could be Will, but Mike let himself enjoy the similarities for a second. His floppy brown hair was a similar shade, but it was longer and split down the middle, hanging like curtains on his forehead. Will’s hair would probably look like that if he ever grew out his goddamn bowl cut.
The mystery boy stood alone behind the refreshment table, handing out glasses of wine with a smile, but not actively starting conversations. Usually, when someone is acting shy, it’s because they lack the confidence or ability to talk to people. But in the way that the man keenly observed the scene around him, he seemed to share Will’s particular brand of shyness, which stemmed not from insecurity, but an active desire to linger at the edge of things and mentally collect images that might appear in his sketchbook later.
In Mike’s opinion, it was one of Will’s most endearing qualities, and while Will watched the world unfold around him, Mike would usually just look at Will. This propensity for staring became an inside joke over the years, prompting hundreds of eye-rolls from his friends.
Max, especially, loved to tease him about it. She would say something like, “Eyes on me, Wheeler, I know I’m not as pretty as Byers but it is considered polite to look at people while they’re talking to you.”
“Ooooh, good one Max,” Mike would snap back, without any real animosity.
He might feel embarrassed for a second, but any sense of shame would be diffused by Will inevitably shooting him a quick glance that said, “It’s ok. You can look. I like it when you look.” And so, the cycle would continue.
In this less-defensible present situation, though, Mike was simply staring at a stranger. When their eyes met, his instincts were to look away and to promptly leave the room, and perhaps the state. But, he compelled himself to remember that this was New York, not Hawkins, and in the spirit of embracing his brave new life, he dared himself to hold his gaze for at least one reckless second before looking down.
Heat crept up his neck and bloomed across his cheeks, more so once he remembered that he was supposed to be in the middle of a conversation with the girl in front of him.
“Right, yeah, totally.” He blurted out, praying that would disguise his obvious lapse in attention.
Luckily, she giggled. “Um, earth to Mike!” She said, tilting her head, “I said, where did you say you are from?”
Mike cringed, thinking it was generous of her to laugh it off rather than point out his indecent staring.
“Oh, um, Indiana. A super small town. No one has ever heard of it.” Mike doubted, and hoped, that these east coast literary types would be unfamiliar with the “curses” and “conspiracies” associated with Hawkins, but he didn’t feel like risking it. “I was actually going to grab a drink, can I get you anything, Kellie?”
“It’s Kylie,” she corrected, smiling awkwardly, “and no…I’m good,” lifting her nearly full glass as evidence.
“Right, Kylie, I’m sorry! Um, nice to meet you, I’ll see you in class, I guess.” Mike tried to look casual as he scurried toward the drinks table.
***
Up close, the man looked less like Will than Mike’s brain had insisted from across the room. He was too tall, for one thing, and the freckle placement was all wrong. Regardless, there was something about his stillness and kind eyes that hit the same nerve.
“Hey,” the boy said, already reaching for a bottle. “Red or white?”
“Uh.” Mike glanced at the labels like he knew what any of them meant. “Whatever’s… not terrible?”
The boy’s mouth twitched, almost a smile. “A connoisseur.”
Mike’s cheeks warmed again. Was this guy… flirting with him?
“Sorry. I’m Mike, by the way.”
“I know.” The boy set a plastic cup down and poured like he’d done it a thousand times tonight. His hands were steady. “Michael Wheeler, correct?”
Mike stiffened. “Just Mike. Only my dad calls me Michael.” He made a mental note to try not to bring up his parents within the first minute of conversation with a cute guy next time. “How did you know?”
“Department job.” He nodded toward the nametags table like it explained everything. “Also, I read your application.”
Mike almost dropped the cup. “Wait. What?”
The boy finally smiled properly, like he’d been waiting to get to this part. “Don’t worry. I’m not one of your classmates. I mean I am a student too, I’m getting my PhD in the English department. They rope us into helping with the incoming cohort, because the tenured faculty are far too important to spend their Friday evening doling out boxed wine.”
Mike opened his mouth, closed it, and tried again. “So you… gave notes on my application?”
“Oh no, not notes,” he said quickly, like that would have been too intimate. “My advisor runs the MFA admissions and asked me to skim the essays for him and sort them into piles, that’s all. ‘This is competent.’ ‘This is self-indulgent.’ ‘This person should probably be institutionalized until they work through their trauma.’ You know, that kind of thing.”
Mike couldn’t help it, he let out a short, surprised burst of laughter. Relief loosened something in his chest.
“And yours,” the boy continued, “was the first one in a while that wasn’t… a long diary entry pretending to be literature.”
Mike’s smile froze. Great, he thought, my first compliment and I can’t even take it. This guy has no idea the shocking extent to which my work is extremely, excruciatingly autobiographical.
The boy must have noticed, because his expression softened. “That sounded harsher than I meant. It’s just that everyone wants to write about themselves. Your sci-fi thing? The girl with the powers? It actually had a plot.”
Mike swallowed. His throat felt tight at the mention of El, or “Mel,” as he had renamed her in the essay. It was his government-mandated therapist that suggested he write about her. The idea was that it would be a way for him to process his feelings while also finding a way to honor her memory. Mike was sceptical at first, but he had to admit it was kind of working. His guilt would never truly go away, of course, but it wasn’t debilitating anymore, and it felt good to hear someone else talking about her in a positive light. His eyes were starting to sting, but he held it together.
“Thanks,” he managed.
The boy tipped his head. “Thomas, by the way.”
“Mike,” Mike repeated, like the name could anchor him.
Thomas leaned forward a little, lowering his voice. “Also, I loved the part where the portal opens. The way you described it. Like… the world tearing at the seams.”
Mike’s stomach rolled. He tightened his grip on the cup until the rim flexed.
“You’re a writer,” Thomas said. Not a question.
Mike forced himself to inhale. “Trying to be.”
“Don’t do that. Imposter syndrome will eat you alive in a place like this. You’re here because a bunch of people think you’re super talented, including me, for the record.” Thomas’s eyes flicked over Mike’s face, trying to get a read. “You should come by the department office sometime. We’ve got a bulletin board with readings and stuff. And a printer that doesn’t jam every three minutes.”
Mike blinked, thrown. “Oh yeah?”
Thomas shrugged, like it was nothing.
Okay, I’m pretty sure he’s flirting, Mike thought. In the process of avoiding Thomas’ eyes, he caught a glimpse at the clock behind him. “Oh crap.”
“Are you good? You seem stressed.” Thomas was definitely enjoying watching Mike squirm.
Mike let out something that might’ve been a laugh. “I’m meeting my sister downtown,” he said too fast. “Dinner.”
Thomas raised his eyebrows. “That’s nice that she lives here too.”
“Yeah,” Mike said. “I haven’t seen her in a while.”
“Well, good luck, Mike Wheeler, I hope I’ll see you around.” Thomas subtly winked before turning his attention back to pouring the drinks.
Mike nodded, and then he was moving away, the crowd swallowing him again. Did he actually just wink at me? He did! Oh my god…. He didn’t look back. He didn’t trust himself to.
***
The wine on an empty stomach was catching up to him fast. Mike stepped out of the lecture hall and into the hallway, the loud voices of thirty or so aspiring writers blessedly dissipating as the heavy iron door closed behind him. It’s possible, he felt for the tenth time that day, that this was all a terrible mistake. He took a moment to brace himself for the journey downtown, pressing his fingers against the cool marble wall before stepping into the heat.
The summer humidity showed no signs of letting up, hitting him like a damp towel to the face as soon as he stepped outside. Mike didn’t expect to struggle with the heat, but the sweltering Indiana summers of his youth did little to prepare him for the oppressiveness of the city air, which hung stagnant between tall buildings and radiated off of the endless concrete surfaces. He was slowly becoming familiar with the strange melange of smells, noticing exhaust fumes, cigarette smoke, and the salty and sweet odor of a hot dog stand as he walked through the campus gates and descended the steps to the 116th street subway.
He squeezed onto the train just as the doors chimed closed. If possible, the air on the train was even stuffier than it was above ground. Feeling faintly sick, he resolved to drink water and eat more than half a bagel at eight in the morning next time he was going to be running around all day in this heat.
He double, then triple checked that he had correctly boarded a downtown 1 train, and once the train had lurched forward, he finally allowed himself to replay the last ten minutes.
Thomas had winked at him. He exhaled sharply through his nose, almost laughing.
A man had winked at him. A man with kind eyes and steady hands and a reliable printer in his office had unabashedly winked at him. And, instead of the world collapsing inward or someone pointing and shouting a slur at him, nothing had happened. The conversations had continued around him, unfazed. The portraits hadn’t fallen off the walls. No one had cared.
New York apparently allowed for this kind of thing. He knew that would be the case, at least, he hoped it would be, but it was different to experience it first hand.
He leaned his head back against the wall of the train car and shut his eyes for a moment, the rhythm of the train clattering through him.
“You’re a writer,” Thomas had said.
“Trying to be.”
“No, don’t do that.”
Mike wasn’t used to being seen so quickly. Growing up, and especially with Will, there had always been a layer of plausible deniability. Stares disguised as jokes. Touch disguised as horseplay. Everything half-acknowledged and never quite named. At least, not until winter break in ‘89. After he and Will stopped speaking, Mike became even more careful.
Thomas, though, had cut through all that in just a few minutes. Not just by winking at him, though that alone felt seismic, but by insisting he take himself seriously.
You’re here because we think you’re talented.
It was a small thing to say. Ordinary, even. And yet it felt dangerously intimate. Identifying as a writer felt strangely similar to identifying as something else Mike had never quite managed to say. Both required a kind of ownership. Both meant stepping out from behind irony and shrugging modesty and admitting, Yes. This is what I am.
It should have terrified him. Instead, all he felt was relief. As if being named, and not immediately rejected, was actually a real possibility.
He’d had a grand total of two romantic encounters in college, both unplanned, heavily alcohol-fueled, and quietly erased the next morning. Nothing that required explanation. Nothing that required him to claim anything out loud.
A woman elbowed him gently in the ribs and muttered an apology as more people packed in 14th street. He stared at the subway map on the door, counting the stops on the map as the train shifted south.
He wondered what Nancy would say if he told her about Thomas.
Would he tell her?
Nancy had always been perceptive to the point of cruelty. She would clock the tone shift immediately; she’d narrow her eyes and say something like, “So. He winked at you, huh?” and then sit back to watch him unravel.
For a split second, the car dimmed and he could see his reflection in the darkened window. As the lights flickered back on, before he could stop it, he thought of Will.
The tipsy warmth was beginning to fade into something more sober and heavy as the train pulled into the Houston Street stop.
***
The bar Nancy had chosen, Fanelli’s, was narrow and dim, with dark wood paneling and brass fixtures that looked like they hadn’t been polished since the seventies. A ceiling fan turned lazily overhead, doing nothing to cut through the heat. The place smelled faintly of gin and lemon peel.
Nancy was already there when Mike arrived, perched cross-legged at the end of the bar like she belonged there. She had a martini glass in one hand and was furiously scribbling onto a small yellow spiral notebook with the other. Some things never change, Mike mused as he walked over.
“There he is,” she said, raising her glass. “Columbia’s newest intellectual.”
“Please don’t,” Mike muttered, sliding onto the stool beside her.
She leaned over and hugged him hard and fast, like she could get away with it if she did it quickly enough. “You look good,” she said, pulling back to study him. “Older. When did you start wearing your hair like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like you forgot to cut it.”
“That’s literally what happened.”
Nancy smirked and turned back to the bartender. “Another martini. Gin, dirty.” she said, then glanced at Mike. “Or are you going to order something aggressively unpretentious to make a point?”
Mike hesitated for a second. “Hey! What if I want to be aggressively pretentious instead!” he said, straightening slightly. “A martini sounds good. And some fries.” He turned to face Nancy as the bartender walked away, whispering, “I’ll need sustenance if I’m going to keep up with you.”
Nancy rolled her eyes.
The bartender placed the chilled glass in front of him. Clear liquid. Single olive.
Nancy lifted her glass toward him. “To New York,” she said.
“To New York,” he echoed.
He took a sip, and his entire face collapsed.
“Oh my god,” he coughed. “That is disgusting.” How do you drink that, Nance? It’s straight liquor."
Nancy burst out laughing. “It’s gin.”
“It tastes like someone wrung out a pine tree into a glass and topped it up with gasoline.”
“It’s an acquired taste.”
“Well, I haven’t acquired it.”
“She took another serene sip. “Give it time.”
For a few minutes, they talked about safe things. Her job, which she described as “organized chaos.” The campaign trail for the midterms. How they kept asking her to relocate to DC but she was really happy here, in the city. Her delight in telling their parents she was working for Democrats. “I don’t think mom will ever recover,” she said, with clear satisfaction.
“You’re evil,” Mike said.
“Principled,” she corrected.
It was nice. They had grown closer over the past few years, after everything that had happened in Hawkins, but this felt different. Sitting here together in one of the older bars in New York, surrounded by sophisticated and fashionable urban strangers and drinking aggressively adult drinks, felt like catching a glimpse of the kind of life Mike might actually be able to build here.
He had been lonely in Indiana. There was always a distance he could never quite bridge with folks in college. There were things he couldn’t explain, and that no one would ever really understand.
Nancy did. She had been the one constant since he left Hawkins. She refused to visit him at college, insisting that if she had her way she would never step foot in the state again, but she called him every Sunday without fail. She made sure he was still going to therapy. She ranted about Rudy Giuliani and whatever new disaster she was freelance reporting on that week. And when she could tell that he didn’t have the words for something yet, she didn’t push.
Mike would never say this to her face, obviously, but having Nancy here felt grounding. Somewhere along the way, their usual sibling antagonism had softened into something closer to an actual friendship.
Like Will and Jonathan’s, a small, intrusive thought added. Mike ignored it and took another long swallow of gin, only grimacing slightly this time.
He told her about Columbia, about the lecture hall and the portraits and the girl whose name he had already forgotten.
“Off to a strong start,” Nancy said dryly.
“There was this guy, though,” Mike heard himself say, and then wished he hadn’t.
Nancy’s eyes sharpened instantly. “Oh?”
It wasn’t the word itself so much as the tone. The investigative tone. The one she used when an interview subject had just revealed something they hadn’t meant to.
Mike felt a small flash of panic. “He works in the department. PhD student. Helps with admissions and stuff. He read my application essay.” Another sip. The drink was still foul, but it was making this conversation noticeably easier.
“And?”
“And he didn’t hate it.”
“That’s the bar now?”
“He said I’m talented,” Mike said, quieter, before taking a large sip of his drink.
Nancy’s teasing expression softened. “Well,” she said. “He’s right.”
Mike shrugged, uncomfortable under her gaze.
“Does he have a name?” she asked casually.
Mike hesitated for half a second too long. “Thomas.”
Nancy hummed. “Thomas,” she repeated, like she was filing it away for later. “And are you going to say whatever it is you’re trying not to say, or are we just admiring his editorial discernment?”
“Editorial discernment? Who talks like that in real life, Nancy, seriously,” he mocked, in a blatant attempt to change the subject.
“Well, writers, for one. You should try it.” She nudged his shoulder, playfully. “Anyway, you’re deflecting.”
Mike stared at his hands. “He might have… winked?”
Nancy nearly choked on her drink. “He what?”
“It wasn’t a big deal,” Mike said quickly. “It was probably nothing.”
“In what universe is a man winking at you not a big deal?” she demanded, delighted.
Mike could feel heat creeping up his neck again.
Well,” he said slowly, “I guess in a universe where I’m…you know.”
Nancy tilted her head. “I don’t know. Explain the universe to me.”
Mike stared down at the bar, tracing the condensation ring his glass had left behind on the wood. He had thought about saying it for years. He had managed to say it out loud to himself in the mirror once, in his dorm room in Indiana, and then felt so unsettled by the sound of it that he’d turned the light off and gone straight to bed.
He had thought about saying it to Will, specifically, more times than he could count. He had rehearsed the whole conversation in his head, hoping that Will would hug him and say yeah, I know, Mike. Mike had resolved, so many times, that the next time he saw Will he would get it over with.
He never did.
And then Will said it first. Not in the intimate setting that Mike had imagined, but in front of an entire circle of family and friends. He watched his friends respond with immediate warmth and felt, underneath his own genuine relief, something that shamed him a little. Envy. Of their ease, and of Will’s courage.
Nancy studied him for a moment, her expression shifting from amusement to something more thoughtful. She signalled at the bartender, then, mouthing “another round over here.”
“Mike, it’s fine, really. I’m not trying to force any secrets out of you. You don’t have to say anything if you don’t–”
“Nancy, just let me get this out ok.” He interrupted, taking a breath.
“This is New York,” he said weakly.
“Yes, Mike, I’m aware.” Nancy poked his arm again, attempting to lighten the mood.
“I swear to god Nancy can you please be quiet for one minute,” he snapped, but the beginnings of a smile were beginning to form.
She already knows, he thought. I think she already knows and she’s trying to make this easier.
“I mean,” he continued, running a hand through his hair, “I know I said I came here because Columbia gave me a full ride. And that’s true. But I think there were other reasons I needed to get out of the midwest.”
Nancy didn’t interrupt this time.
“And I’ve been thinking about it for a long time,” he said. “I don’t know if anyone can ever be one hundred percent sure about anything, but… I’m pretty sure.”
He swallowed.
“I haven’t told Mom and Dad,” he added quickly. “And I don’t think I want to. So please don’t say anything. But what I’m trying to say is I’m gay, basically.” He downed the rest of his drink, just as the new one was placed in front of him.
Nancy nodded once.
“Yeah,” she said. “I figured.”
Mike groaned, covering his face with his hands. “You knew? Oh my god…does everyone know?”
“Mike, it’s not like that, okay?” She speared the olive in her glass and ate it. “I didn’t know, and I haven’t talked to anyone about it or anything, I just suspected.”
Nancy reached over and nudged his fresh martini towards him. “Drink.”
He emerged from behind his hands to take another sip, only wincing slightly this time.
“I still hate this,” he said.
“You’ll learn.”
“Look at it this way,” she said. “Now maybe you can stop looking like you’re about to pass out every time a man makes eye contact with you.”
He laughed, a little shakily. “I’m trying.”
“You’ll learn that too.”
The fries arrived then, piled high on a little metal tray lined with wax paper. Mike grabbed one immediately.
“Oh thank god,” he said through a mouthful of salt and grease. “Actual food.”
Nancy stole one from the pile.
“So, am I officially a cool older sister now that you’re trusting me with your secrets?
“You’ve always been a cool older sister, Nance.”
“Wow, you are drunk.”
“You’re just also super annoying sometimes.”
“That’s more like it.” She smiled. “I’m glad you told me. Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” he replied, “I think so.”
They finished the fries in companionable silence, the noise of the bar filling the space between them. Someone fed a few coins into the jukebox near the door. The ceiling fan clattered overhead like it might detach at any moment.
Nancy glanced at her watch.
“I should probably let you get back,” she said. “You’ve got orientation stuff tomorrow, right?”
Mike nodded. “8am.”
Nancy winced. “That should be illegal.”
He slid off the stool, fishing a few crumpled bills from his pocket.
“Put that away,” Nancy said, tossing cash onto the bar before he could argue. “Walk me back to the subway?”
***
The air outside had cooled slightly, and the street buzzed with late-summer energy. Voices spilled out of restaurants, taxis idled at the curb, couples wove through the crowds.
For a few minutes neither of them said anything.
The gin hummed pleasantly in his chest, and the tight knot of anxiety that always lived there had loosened, if temporarily.
“Permission to address the elephant in the room?” Nancy said delicately, as if she had been thinking about it for a while.
“Nope. Not granted.” He knew this evening was too good to be true.
“I ran into Jonathan last month.”
“Oh yeah?” He replied, doing his absolute best to act casual.
“Yeah. We’ve actually been talking a lot since then. He’s still taking photos, but he’s making films now too. He lives in Brooklyn.”
“That’s nice.” He uttered, anxiety blooming in his chest once again.
“He said Will’s living in the East Village, not far from your place, actually.”
Mike nodded like this was new information. He spoke to Lucas every few weeks on the phone, and although he never asked, Lucas always found a way to give him small updates about Will.
“Have you talked to him?” she asked carefully.
“No.”
“Do you want to?”
“Nance, please, I don’t want to talk about this.”
She pursed her lips but said nothing, and they walked in a stalemate for a couple of blocks.
Mike caved first.
“I just…don’t know what I would say.” He admitted.
The last time he saw Will flashed through his mind. He had been crying, but worse than the tears was the resigned look of disappointment on his face, as if he had known all along that Mike would let him down.
Mike felt his eyes start to burn.
“Is there something wrong with ‘hello?”
“It’s not that simple.” Mike snapped.
She sighed. “Look. I think Jonathan knows what happened between you two but he won’t tell me which is completely infuriating. I don’t know the details, but something obviously did. I’ve spoken to you every week since then and I know it’s been killing you. I didn’t bring it up because I wanted to give you time to come to terms with everything first, but Mike…”
She stopped walking and turned to face him. Mike started tapping his foot nervously, staring pointedly at the pavement. He would do literally anything for this conversation to be over. She started to reach for his hand but he flinched away from her, stuffing both hands in his pockets and focusing all his energy on not losing it
“We all said and did some crazy things after everything that happened,” she said. “We were kids. But this,” she gestured vaguely around them, at the city, at the noise and possibility of it all, “this is a real chance for a fresh start.”
Her voice softened.
“If you want to make the most of it, one of these days you’re going to have to stop being so hard on yourself.”
She paused.
“You deserve to move forward,” she said quietly. “Both of you do.”
He nodded, eyes still fixed firmly on the ground.
They rounded the corner to the subway entrance. Before he could argue, Nancy pulled him in for a quick, tight hug.
“I’m sorry. I pushed too hard. I’ll be in DC for the next few weeks but I love you, okay? And I’ll call you-”
“On Sunday. Yeah, I know.” They looked at each other stubbornly with the same concerned frown. Like brother, like sister.
Nancy started down the subway stairs, then stopped halfway and hurried back up again.
“I almost forgot,” she said, reaching into her bag. “I got you something.”
She handed him a small package.
Mike felt a sudden stab of guilt.
“Thanks,” he said, bending down to kiss her on the cheek.
Nancy tilted her head towards the tunnel behind her. “I’ve got to run, I can hear the train coming.”
She disappeared down the stairs two at a time.
For a moment Mike just stood there on the sidewalk, the small package still in his hand. The subway entrance hummed faintly behind him, the sound of the train rushing into the station somewhere below.
The oddly-shaped package was wrapped in brown paper and sealed with tape. Mike carefully peeled the tape back to reveal a small leather notebook, fountain pen and a packet of blue ink cartridges .
He smiled, despite everything.
A note slid loose from inside the wrapping and fluttered toward the pavement. Mike caught it before it fell and unfolded it. Nancy’s handwriting was instantly recognizable. It was sharp and slanted like Mike’s, but much more legible.
You’re a real writer now, it read.
You need the right supplies.
There was more writing on the back. First, a DC address and phone number, presumably for Nancy’s temporary apartment.
The second address made his stomach drop.
Will Byers
439 East 9th St, Apt 3b
New York, NY, 10009
Mike stared at it for a long time.
The East Village, Nancy had said.
Mike’s place was just north of Washington Square Park. Even with his limited knowledge of NYC geography, he knew it must only be a few blocks away, 10 or 15 at most. Close enough that Mike could, theoretically, walk there. At some point, he lifted a hand to his chest, attempting to massage away the tightness that was rearing its ugly head.
He folded the note carefully and slipped it back inside the notebook.
He walked home in a daze. For years, the idea that he would see Will again felt impossible, and yet now he held a piece of paper that made it feel inevitable.