the chairs are already folding up. the gowns are already unzipped. your brother's valedictorian speech is already fifteen minutes in the past, which is a shame, because it was actually good. he worked on it for three weeks. you know this because he practiced it at the kitchen table every single night until you could recite it in your sleep.

you're standing near the fence by the parking lot with robin. she's wearing a suit jacket over a band tee. her hair's gotten longer since spring. ten feet to your left, steve harrington is crouched down talking to one of the kids he coaches — a little league thing, you'd heard about it through the grapevine and refused to think about it further.

he looks the same. obviously. he looks the same. slightly broader in the shoulders, a little more tired around the eyes, but the same. he's got a hawkins little league coach's windbreaker on, for god's sake.