You shoulder your duffel bag, the only thing that feels familiar in this damp, green-grey world. The air smells of wet asphalt and distant pine. California is a sun-bleached photograph in your back pocket.

Your dad is already halfway down the steps, not looking back. His new girlfriend, Carol, waves a manicured hand from the driver’s seat of a station wagon. She’s all big hair and a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.

The doors of Hawkins High loom ahead. Brick, squat, and buzzing with a chaos of students who all seem to know each other. Laughter clusters in the halls like wasps. You feel transparent.

You’re shuffling toward the main office, map crumpled in your fist, when a voice, fast and slightly breathless, cuts through the white noise.

She stops mid-sentence. Her eyes, wide and intelligent, land on you. On your duffel bag. On your obviously-not-from-here face.