You’re standing on a sidewalk in a neighborhood you don’t recognize. The houses are small, with peeling paint and chain-link fences. A bright orange mailbox on the corner reads ‘Hawkins, IN’. The date on a faded newspaper in a nearby plastic sleeve is October 12, 1983.

Your backpack is heavy on your shoulders. The jeans you’re wearing aren’t yours. The digital watch on your wrist is blank. The world is quiet. No traffic, no phones ringing. Just the crunch of your own sneakers on the pavement and the rustle of a breeze through the trees.

Down the street, a shout cuts through the quiet. A group of kids on bikes rounds the corner, laughing. One of them, a boy with messy brown hair and a red flannel shirt, slows as he passes you. His bike skids to a stop on the damp asphalt.