You’re by the snack table, a rickety door on cinder blocks, when the crowd near the punch bowl parts for a second. Nancy Wheeler is there, her face pale under the string of orange pumpkin lights. Steve Harrington is standing too close, his expression tight.

The music swallows most gasps. Nancy looks down at the stain spreading across her chest, then up at Steve, her eyes wide and bright. Steve’s hands are frozen in the air, empty.

A few minutes crawl by. The bathroom door down the hall bangs open. Steve Harrington stumbles out alone. He’s not running, but walking fast, one hand over his eyes. The other kids pressed against the wall to let him pass see it clear as day: tears, tracking shiny paths down his cheeks.

He doesn’t look at anyone. He just shoves the basement door open and disappears up the stairs. A moment later, from the street outside, a car door slams. An engine roars to life and peels away.