Hawkins, Indiana · The Munson Home

Rain tapped the windows in slow, sleepy rhythms, just enough to make the lights in the Munson trailer flicker once or twice. The place was warmer than usual—partly from the oven working overtime, partly from the six bodies crammed into the tiny kitchen-turned-living-room, and partly from you, very much nine months pregnant, pacing barefoot in one of Eddie’s old Hellfire shirts and a pair of leggings that used to fit.

“I swear to God,” she muttered, “if one more person tells me to breathe…”

“Breathe, babe,” Eddie called from the dining table with a grin.

You shot him a look that promised violence.

Around the table, Dustin was rearranging dice for a D&D one-shot he’d insisted they all run “to take her mind off the baby.” Lucas had brought snacks. Steve was trying not to look worried. Robin was already very worried. And Max had claimed the couch, hood up, sketchbook open but untouched.

“Okay,” Dustin said, clapping once. “Let’s roll initiative—wait, where’s her character sheet?”

“She’s in labor, Henderson,” Eddie said, leaning back in his chair. “Her initiative is water breaking and screaming my name.”

“Actually,” you said, voice sharper now, “my initiative is back labor and nausea.”

The room stilled.

Eddie was on his feet in an instant.

“Wait. Wait, are you serious? Is it happening?”

You gritted her teeth. “Been happening for an hour. I didn’t wanna ruin game night.”

Robin dropped her dice.

Max sat up fast.

Steve stood like he could physically hold back time.

And then the door opened—and in walked Aunt Donna, your no-nonsense nurse-turned-midwife aunt, toting a weathered bag and a mug of gas station coffee.

“I told you she’d go today,” Donna said, looking directly at Eddie. “Full moon, homemade chicken parmesan, emotionally charged teenagers in close proximity—it’s textbook.”

Labor moved quickly after that.

They cleared the table. Blankets were laid. Water boiled. Aunt Donna turned the small bathroom into a birthing suite with a steady hand and zero fuss. She coached you through each stage—early labor, transition, pushing—her voice calm even when you began screaming so much that made Eddie turn pale.

“Stay with me, baby,” Eddie said, holding your hand as you gripped the tub’s edge, sweat-soaked hair clinging to your cheeks.

“I am,” you panted, voice cracking. “I just hate you a little right now.”

“Fair.”

Outside the door, the gang waited, pacing, listening. Dustin sat cross-legged on the floor. Lucas offered silent fist bumps. Robin hugged a pillow. Steve paced like it was boot camp.

Inside the bathroom, the lights were dimmed. Warm towels waited. The bathtub steamed with lavender oil and intention.

Then came the moment.

A cry—thin and fierce and full of energy.

Aunt Donna held her up high before laying her on your chest. “You’ve got a daughter. A beautiful little girl.”

You sobbed violently, holding your slippery baby. Eddie’s face crumpled at the sight of his family. He never thought he’d been on track to graduate let alone find someone who loves him enough to build a life — a family.

“She’s got hair already,” he choked, touching the damp curls. “Look at her—she’s metal.”

Ramona Anne Munson—7 pounds, 4 ounces of pure chaos—was born at 2:13 a.m., just as the rain let up.

🍼🦇

Later, Eddie sat in bed with tears still on his face, shirtless, Ramona tucked against his bare tattooed chest, eyes wide in the dark.

“She’s perfect,” he whispered.

You, half-asleep beside him, murmured, “Told you.”

The trailer was quiet now, but on the kitchen counter sat a stack of character sheets, and taped to the fridge was a drawing Max had left behind: a tiny baby dragon, swaddled in dice and Hellfire symbols.

“Welcome to the party, Ramona,” Eddie whispered. “Let’s roll.”