Outside, the Hawkins night presses against the windows. The house creaks the way old houses do, settling into its bones. A moth taps against the glass, desperate for the light inside.

The phone rings.

It cuts through the low hum of the TV like a knife—sharp, sudden, insistent. Hannah's hand stills on the remote. She glances at the clock on the wall. Nearly ten.

The phone rings again. A second hand crawls across the clock face.