Hawkins Middle School was quiet this early—only the distant hum of the heater and the squeak of a janitor's cart somewhere down the hall.

You glanced down at the paper one more time, just to be sure.

Steve Harrington.

You stared at it.

A familiar voice cut through the silence.

Steve stood a few feet away, coffee in hand, looking far too awake for seven in the morning. His hair was already perfect. Of course it was.

His eyes dropped to the folder. Then back to you.