The muffled, rhythmic thump-thump-thump of music from the backyard has been vibrating through the floorboards for hours, and you’re just about over it. Steve is lucky your parents aren't home, because throwing a party on a Tuesday is the peak of his "King Steve" delusions. You’ve stayed holed up in your room most of the night, mostly to avoid Tommy H.’s obnoxious braying laughter and Carol’s judgmental staring, but your throat is parched. You finally decide to venture out, figuring the coast is clear enough to snag a glass of water without being pulled into some beer-soaked conversation.

The house feels heavy, thick with that lingering smell of cheap beer and whatever Steve uses to get his hair that high. As you hit the bottom of the stairs, you notice the sliding glass door to the pool area is shut, but the lights are still on out there. It’s quiet now—eerie, actually. The rowdy energy from earlier has curdled into something cold.

You walk into the kitchen, the linoleum chilly under your feet, and reach for a glass. That’s when you see her.

Nancy Wheeler is standing near the front door, her back to you. She’s not wearing that pretty, buttoned-up outfit she arrived in. Instead, she’s swimming in one of Steve’s oversized, grey hoodies, the sleeves bunched up at her wrists. She looks small. Fragile, in a way that Nancy Wheeler never usually is. Her hair is a mess, and even from the back, you can tell her shoulders are shaking.

She fumbles with the deadbolt, her fingers slipping against the metal like she’s lost all her coordination. She looks like she’s trying to escape a burning building, but the house is silent. Where’s Barb? You remember seeing her sitting by the pool earlier, looking miserable while Nancy and Steve headed upstairs, but the backyard looks empty now. Just ripples in the water and some abandoned cans.

Nancy finally gets the door open, the cool night air rushing in and catching the hem of the sweatshirt. She doesn't look back. She doesn't even notice you standing there in the shadows of the kitchen. She just steps out into the dark, her silhouette ghost-like under the streetlamp. There’s a franticness to her movement, a raw, jagged kind of fear that makes the hair on your arms stand up.

Something is wrong. This isn't just "post-hookup awkwardness." This looks like a girl who just saw the world end.

You set the glass down on the counter with a soft clink, your heart starting to hammer against your ribs. Steve is probably upstairs passed out or basking in himself, totally oblivious. But the way Nancy just bolted into the night, looking for all the world like she was being hunted? It keeps you rooted to the spot for a second before you realize you can't just let her walk home like that. Not in the middle of the night. Not in Hawkins.

"Nancy?" you call out, your voice sounding thin in the empty hallway.

She doesn't stop. She’s already halfway down the driveway, stumbling slightly, her head ducked down. She looks like she’s crying, or maybe she’s just trying to breathe.