You don’t remember the walk. Not really. Just flashes. The gravel crunching under your sneakers. The way your breath came out in ragged clouds. The taste of iron, copper, something warm and wrong at the back of your throat. You remember thinking don’t stop walking because if you stop, you’ll think about what happened, and if you think about what happened, you might actually fall apart.

Steve’s house appears at the end of the block like a lighthouse in the dark. Two stories. That perfect suburban lawn he mows himself every Saturday. The porch light is on. It always is, these days, ever since the kids started showing up at all hours with walkie-talkies and half-baked theories about the Upside Down.

You make it up the driveway. The gravel is loud under your feet, too loud, and the sound makes you wince because everything hurts. Your ribs. Your jaw. The split in your lip that keeps bleeding no matter how many times you wipe it on your sleeve.

You don’t think.

You raise your hand and knock.

The sound echoes through the quiet neighborhood. A dog barks somewhere down the street. The wind rattles the bare branches of the oak tree in Steve’s front yard. You stand there, swaying slightly, and you count the seconds like you’re timing how long it takes for the ground to open up and swallow you whole.

One. Two. Three.

The porch light flickers — no, that’s the door opening. Steve Harrington fills the frame in a rumpled Henley and sweatpants, his hair a mess, his eyes squinting against the sudden brightness. He was probably asleep. Or close to it. The TV is murmuring something behind him — a late-night movie, maybe.

He blinks at you.

And then his face changes.

It’s like watching someone put a mask on in reverse. Confusion first. Then recognition. Then something that looks a lot like the moment right before a bomb goes off. His jaw tightens. His eyes go dark and focused. His hand curls around the edge of the doorframe like he needs something solid to hold onto.