Chapter 11

Maggie and Joyce sit at the kitchen table, both of them surrounded by a sea of clutter, half-eaten toast, newspaper clippings, and curling missing posters still damp from the night before. The air is thick with cigarette smoke and grief. Joyce sniffles softly, the ash on her cigarette dangerously long, dangling between two trembling fingers. Maggie, usually all bright sarcasm and offbeat commentary, is quiet now. She reaches across the table and gently wraps her fingers around Joyce’s, giving her hand a squeeze.

“Alright,” Jonathan says as he enters, holding two mismatched plates stacked with eggs and toast, “Breakfast is ready.”

He sets the plates down carefully, eyeing the organized chaos on the table. Joyce immediately begins clearing space, pushing posters and receipts aside.

“Be careful of the posters,” she says, voice brittle, as she snatches one of Will’s flyers and presses it flat.

“We just need you to eat, Joyce,” Maggie murmurs, still holding her hand, “You can’t keep running on empty.”

But Joyce isn’t listening. Her eyes flick to the microwave clock, then to her watch. 

She mutters to herself, “Okay, the Xerox place opens in, what, thirty minutes? We need, like, two hundred. No, three hundred. Maybe more. How much is a copy?”

“Okay, Mom—” Jonathan starts, trying to intercept the panic rising in her voice.

“Ten cents?” she mumbles, rifling through her purse, pulling out crumpled bills.

“Mom,” he says louder.

“If we—if we each take some copies and go around town—”

“Mom!” Jonathan barks, grabbing her hand before she can dump out the contents of her wallet across the table. 

The movement jostles the cigarette ash onto the poster of Will’s face.

Joyce stops. Her face crumples. She slumps forward, burying her face in her hands. Her shoulders quake. 

“I’m sorry,” she sobs, her voice hoarse, “I’m sorry, I just…”

Jonathan rises instantly, moving behind her and rubbing slow circles into her back, “It’s okay. It’s okay.”

Maggie gets up too, slipping her arms around Joyce’s shoulders. She doesn’t say anything, just hums softly, resting her chin against the woman’s hair. Her fingers twitch against Joyce’s sleeve, and with a subtle inhale, she lets her ability draw in a small thread of sorrow not even meaning to. It doesn’t solve anything. But it might dull the edge.

A sharp knock sounds at the door. Jonathan glances to the front hallway and heads off to answer it.

Maggie pulls away slightly, brushing Joyce’s hair back behind her ear, “Hey. Hey, we’re doing everything we can. I promise, we’re gonna find him. We’re not stopping.”

Joyce sniffles and offers a fragile, watery smile, “You’re a good kid, Maggie.”

Before Maggie can answer, Hopper walks in, hat in hand and his expression unreadable. The moment Joyce sees him, she straightens abruptly.

“We’ve been waiting six hours,” she accuses, her voice cracking under the weight of it.

“I know,” Hopper says calmly, stepping inside, “I came as soon as I could.”

“Six hours,” she repeats, incredulous.

Hopper holds up his hand, “A little bit of trust here, alright? We’ve been searching all night. All the way to Cartersville.”

“And?” Joyce demands.

“Nothing,” he admits, the word falling like a stone.

Joyce spins away from him, choking back a sob, one hand clutched over her mouth as she turns in place.

Maggie’s arms are around her again in a second, holding tight as Joyce trembles. Her eyes flick to Hopper. He looks away, jaw clenched, hat twisting in his hands.

“Flo says you got a phone call?” he says, voice softer now.

Joyce nods and leads him to the melted, warped phone resting on the wall. 

“It was Will,” she insists. “It was him.”

Hopper lifts the receiver, eyebrows pinching together, “Storm barbecued this pretty good.”

“The storm?” Joyce asks bitterly, crossing her arms, “That’s what you think it was?”

He looks up, “What else?”

“You’re saying this isn’t weird?”

“It’s weird,” he admits, hanging the receiver up, “Definitely weird.”

Jonathan steps in, “Can we trace the call?”

“No,” Hopper replies, “It doesn’t work like that.”

He looks at Joyce again, “You’re sure it was Will? Flo said you just heard some breathing.”

“No,” she insists, voice thick with emotion, “It was him. He said my name. He was scared. And then there was, something else.”

“It was probably a prank call,” Hopper says, “Some kid trying to scare you. Happens all the time. These things get on the news, brings out the weirdos. You know, false leads, copycats.”

“Who would do that?” Maggie snaps, stepping between him and Joyce, “Why would anyone do that to a grieving mother?”

Hopper shrugs helplessly, “People are messed up.”

Joyce’s eyes go wide with frustration, “No, Hop. That wasn’t a prank. That was Will. My son. I know his voice. I know his breathing!”

“Joyce.”

“Come on!” she shouts, “How about a little trust, huh? What, you think I’m making this up?”

“I didn’t say that,” Hopper says, “I just think this is an emotional time. Things can feel real even when—”

“And you don’t think I’d know my own son’s breathing?” she breaks, eyes shining, “You wouldn’t know your own daughter’s?”

The words are out before she can stop them. Silence detonates in the room.

Hopper flinches like he’s been slapped. His mouth opens slightly, then closes. He stares at her, something shuttering behind his eyes. Maggie’s stomach sinks.

Maggie steps forward, hand on Joyce’s arm. 

“Joyce,” she whispers, wide-eyed, “That was too far.”

Hopper nods stiffly, jaw clenched. He paces once, slowly, before coming to a stop. The room feels cold now, all the warmth bled out.

Hopper glances over his shoulder as he settles his hat on his head, tone flat, “Did you, uh, hear from Lonnie yet?”

Joyce exhales sharply through her nose, visibly bristling, “No. Nothing.”

“It’s been long enough.” He reaches for the doorknob, “I’m having him checked out.”

Joyce throws up her hands, frustration bubbling over, “Oh, come on! You’re wasting your time.”

Hopper doesn’t dignify that with a response. He simply tips the brim of his hat lower and walks out, boots heavy on the porch steps.

Jonathan and Maggie are on his heels in an instant, determined.

“Hey, Hopper!” Jonathan calls out, jogging to the truck, “Let me go.”

Hopper stops halfway into his truck, shooting them both a tired look, “I’m sorry?”

“To Lonnie’s,” Jonathan says, “If Will is there, he ran away. And if he sees a cop, he’ll think he’s in trouble. He’ll hide,” He looks down, “You know he’s good at hiding.”

“And I,” Maggie interjects, leaning against the truck door with an exaggerated pout, “am irresistible to lost little boys with too much imagination and too many crayons. He’ll listen to me. I’ll make it all better with my winning personality.”

Hopper arches a brow, “No. You stay here. Cops have it covered. Joyce needs you guys.” 

He slides into the driver’s seat and shuts the door with finality.

“Rude,” Maggie mutters under her breath as the engine revs to life, “As if we’d actually listen.”

She gives Hopper’s taillights a dramatic wave, “Bye, Sheriff Grumpy Pants. Safe travels!”

Later that morning at school…

The halls are buzzing with morning energy, lockers slamming, sneakers squeaking, and teenage hormones. Maggie saunters down the corridor beside Barb and Nancy, her walk a little too smooth for 8 a.m., twirling a cherry Blow Pop between her fingers.

Barb, clutching a stack of notecards like they’re the Ten Commandments, quizzes Nancy mid-step, “When alpha particles pass through gold foil, they travel through…”

“Unoccupied space,” Nancy finishes without missing a beat.

Steve suddenly slides in with perfect timing, plucking the notecards from Barb’s hands with a grin, “I think you’ve studied enough, Nance.”

Barb frowns, “Hey—”

“I’m telling you,” Steve adds, flashing his signature smirk, “You’ve got this.”

Maggie lets out a dramatic sigh, placing the back of her hand against her forehead, “That’s exactly what I’ve been telling her all morning, but does she believe me? Nooo.” She eyes Steve playfully. “But she listens to you just because you’ve got good hair.”

“Ah, Maggie,” Steve spins the notecards like a deck of cards, grinning, “Good to see you.”

“Likewise,” she purrs, “You smell like trouble and aftershave. New cologne?”

Two more bodies slide into the hallway energy. Tommy H and Carol, smirking like backup dancers in a low-budget music video.

“Now, onto more important matters,” Steve begins, brushing past Barb, “My dad’s outta town on a ‘business trip’ and my mom tagged along because she doesn’t trust him.”

“Good call,” Tommy H chimes in.

Steve turns to Nancy, “So, are you in?”

“In for what?” she asks, brows furrowing.

“No parents. Big house,” Carol says, winking.

Maggie raises her eyebrows, “Oooh, I love where this is going.”

“A party?” Nancy asks hesitantly.

“Ding ding ding!” Steve grins, finger-guns her.

“It’s Tuesday,” Nancy protests.

Tommy H immediately mimics her in a high-pitched voice, “It’s Tuesday! Oh my god.”

Maggie gasps, hand over her heart, “Someone get this boy a cookie for bravery. He made a whole sentence with only one functioning brain cell.”

Steve chuckles, “C’mon, it’ll be chill. Just us. Nancy, you in?”

He turns to Maggie next, “And Maggie, you better be there.”

She winks, popping the lollipop into her mouth, “Oh, I was going to show up whether you invited me or not. I live for drama, Steve. And the promise of alcoholic beverages.”

But before Nancy can answer, Carol cuts in sharply, “Oh god, look.”

They all turn. Jonathan is down the hall, taping one of Will’s missing posters to the wall, head ducked low, hair messy, movements quiet and determined.

“Oh, that’s depressing,” Steve mutters.

“Should we say something?” Nancy asks quietly, eyes flicking to Maggie.

Carol rolls her eyes, “I don’t think he speaks.”

Maggie turns, slow and deliberate, licking her lollipop, “You know, Carol, maybe you should take some notes. If you learned to shut up once in a while, we might actually start missing you when you’re gone.”

Carol’s mouth falls open.

Tommy, undeterred and clueless, blurts, “How much you wanna bet he killed him?”

That’s it.

Before Maggie can say a word, Steve shoves Tommy with a hard smack to the arm, “Shut up.”

Maggie steps in close, voice low and deadly sweet, “You better count your blessings that I haven’t murdered your dumb ass yet, Tommy. And believe me, I’ve got ideas.” 

She smiles, baring just a little too much teeth, “I’ll see you losers tonight.”

She spins on her heel and stalks toward Jonathan, who’s still posting flyers with quiet focus. Her face softens.

“Hey,” she says gently, placing a hand on his shoulder.

Jonathan jumps a little, startled, but relaxes when he sees her, “Hey.”

“Let me help,” she says, already taking a small stack of flyers from his hand.

He offers her a tired smile, “Thanks, Maggie.”

She nudges him with her shoulder, “Don’t listen to those juniper-brained morons. We’re gonna find our Sunshine. Even if it kills me.”

Jonathan chuckles softly, just once, but the sound is genuine. She wraps him in a hug, her mismatched earrings clinking as her head rests on his shoulder.

Nancy appears, eyes downcast, “Hey.”

Jonathan’s eyebrows raise slightly, “Oh, hey.”

“I heard about what happened. I just… I wanted to say I’m sorry. About everything.”

She glances briefly back toward the group, “Everyone’s thinking about you. It sucks.”

Jonathan nods slowly, “Yeah.”

“I’m sure he’s okay,” Nancy adds, voice quiet, “He’s smart. He’s got to be okay.”

The bell rings, and the moment stretches awkwardly between them.

Maggie claps her hands once, loud, “Well, this has been a wonderful little dumpster fire of awkwardness, but we’ve got class. I refuse to be late and get stuck with the front row seat next to Mr. Balch’s nose hair.”

Jonathan snorts. Nancy grins. Maggie waves over her shoulder as she saunters off, already twirling her lollipop again.