The Byers learned early how to stretch a dollar until it was thin as paper.

Jonathan worked after school at the Hawkins Post, running errands, developing photos, doing anything they let him do for a few extra hours of pay. Joyce worked double shifts at Melvald’s whenever she could, coming home with tired eyes and the smell of cigarettes clinging to her jacket. Even then, the bills stacked up on the kitchen table like they were daring them to blink.

So when Will said, quietly, one night over boxed mac and cheese, “I could get a job too…” Joyce tried to laugh it off.

He was fourteen. Too young, she said. School came first. He needed time to be a kid.

But Will didn’t push like Jonathan did. He didn’t argue. He just waited. And a week later, when a handwritten sign appeared in Melvald’s window—

‘HAWKINS DAYCARE LOOKING FOR AFTER-SCHOOL HELP’

He pointed at it and said, “Just Wednesdays. And weekends.”

That was how he ended up there. At first, Will was painfully aware of himself.

The daycare smelled like disinfectant and applesauce. The walls were painted in bright, cheerful colors that felt almost too loud, and the room buzzed constantly with noise—crying, laughing, toys clattering to the floor. On his first day, he stood near the door with his hands tucked into his sleeves, watching the other workers move around with practiced ease.

He spoke softly. Too softly, he thought. He flinched every time a baby cried, convinced it was something he’d done wrong. When a toddler tripped and scraped her knee, Will froze for half a second before reacting, heart pounding, before crouching down and holding out his hands.

“It’s okay, you’re okay…” he said, voice steady despite the panic in his chest.

She stopped crying almost immediately.

That happened a lot.

Kids gravitated toward him in ways he didn’t understand. Babies quieted when he picked them up. Toddlers followed him from station to station like ducklings. The older kids liked sitting next to him during story time, leaning against his shoulder while he read in that calm, careful voice.

The coworkers noticed. They started asking him to watch the younger ones while they stepped away, letting him handle snack time, trusting him with nap duty—something they usually reserved for people who had been there longer.

Will never said no. He just nodded and did the job, carefully, like everything mattered.

A normal day went like this: he arrived right after school, backpack slung over one shoulder, hair still wind-tousled from the bike ride over. He washed his hands, signed his name on the clipboard, and tied a spare apron around his waist.

First came free play. Will sat on the floor, cross-legged, building block towers only for small hands to knock them down. He handed out crayons, wiped marker ink off tables, untangled toy trains. When a baby grew fussy, he rocked them slowly, humming under his breath—something his mother used to do when he was little.

Snack time was chaotic but manageable. Will passed out apple slices and crackers, reminded kids to sit down, cleaned sticky fingers without complaint.

Nap time was his favorite. The room dimmed, mats lining the floor as Will moved quietly between them, tucking blankets up to chins, rubbing small backs until breathing evened out.

By the time parents started arriving, the daycare shifted again. Children perked up at the sound of familiar voices, backpacks collected, artwork handed over proudly. Will knelt beside kids as they ran into waiting arms, waving goodbye when they turned back to look at him.

More than once, a parent paused.

“Are you working tomorrow?” a little boy asked, fingers curled into Will’s sleeve.

“I’ll be here Saturday…” Will said.

“Good.” the kid replied seriously.

As the room emptied, Will helped clean up—stacking chairs, wiping tables, setting things back where they belonged. When Joyce would come to pick him up at the end of his shift, she usually found him sitting on the floor, a baby balanced against his chest, perfectly content in his element.