The wind whips through Billy’s hair as he drives along I-8, the old Camaro speeds down the highway. San Diego is a long drive from Hawkins, but Billy had scoffed when you suggested flying. He likes driving, any excuse to get his Camaro’s engine roaring, it didn’t matter that you had to crash a few nights at some cheap B&Bs on the way.

Billy’s quiet, has been since you crossed the border into California, his usual cocky grin missing as his eyes remain fixed on the road ahead. This isn’t just any road trip, it’s a journey back to the place he left behind. And even though he was the one who asked if you’d be up for the trip, you know he’s been on edge about returning. About coming home.

Then he lets out a slow breath that he didn’t realise he’d been holding in and you notice his white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel ease slightly. “Been wishin’ to come back here for how many years? Now I’m really here and it feels all weird," he tuts, eyes fixed on the road, "This was supposed to feel good."