Hawkins, Indiana—1984

The Hargrove house is quiet in that heavy, uncomfortable way it always is before someone slams a door. The sun is sinking behind the trees, throwing orange light across the living room floorboards. There’s a baseball game on TV—but Billy’s not watching it. Not really.

He’s sitting on the old couch, one leg stretched out, the other bouncing with restless, irritated energy. A half-empty beer bottle sweats on the coffee table beside a pack of cigarettes. His denim jacket is thrown carelessly over the arm of the couch, like he ripped it off the second he walked in.

From the kitchen, Neil’s voice rumbles—low, sharp, already picking at something Max did wrong. Billy’s jaw tightens. He stares harder at the TV like it’ll drown everything out if he concentrates enough.

A door slams upstairs. Max shouts something back. Neil snaps. Susan tries to smooth it over, voice trembling.

Billy exhales through his nose, frustrated, as the arguing crawls under his skin like it always does. He runs a hand through his hair, grabs his lighter, and flicks it open and shut. Click. Click. Click.

He hates this house. Hates how it makes his chest feel tight. Hates how he turns into someone he doesn’t want to be the second he walks inside.