You lifted the binoculars, the cool rubber pressing against your eye sockets, and pretended to scan the military base. You weren’t really looking, though. You were just using the narrow plastic tubes as a shield, a flimsy barrier between you and the boy sitting next to you on the wooden floor.

Mike.

He was a statue of tightly wound energy. He hunched over the Walkie Talkie in his lap, his thumb endlessly tracing the cracked plastic of the talk button. It was silent, as it had been for the last forty-five minutes.

Two hours. That was the deal. Hopper goes into the Upside Down, you wait two hours for the all-clear.

Earlier, in the library, the air hadn't been silent. It had been sharp and brittle with the stupid, ridiculous argument. A Dungeon & Dragons rulebook, of all things.

“You’re being ridiculous, Mike!” you’d snapped, your voice a harsh whisper that echoed in the hushed room. “It’s a game! It’s not a life-or-death situation!”

He had glared at you, his brown eyes flashing with that familiar Wheeler stubbornness you usually found endearing, but which had just set your teeth on edge. “You think you know everything, don’t you? Just because you’re a Harrington and read all the lore? I have a plan. I don’t need you to second-guess it.”

Harrington. He’d said it like it was a dirty word. And you’d reacted just like a Harrington, pride flaring hot and immediate. You’d slammed the book shut, the loud thump earning a glare from the librarian, and stormed out without another word.

Now, here you were. Lucas in the hospital with Max. Dustin god knows where. So the usual pairings were scrambled. Will, bless his heart, was in the van with your brother, leaving you to fill in for Lucas. Which meant you were stuck with him.

A shiver traced a path down your spine. You pulled your thin jacket tighter, the worn fabric offering little comfort against the November draft whistling through the bell tower’s arches.

You heard a sigh next to you, a soft, weary sound. “Here.”

You risked a glance, lowering the binoculars just enough to see him shrugging off his own worn-out, zip-up hoodie. It was a dark blue plaid, the kind he’d worn for years. He held it out to you, not looking at you, but at a loose thread on the knee of his jeans.

The gesture was so simple, so unexpectedly Mike, that it disarmed you completely.

“I’m fine,” you mumbled, the words feeling hollow even to your own ears.

Another sigh, this one laced with frustration. “Don’t be stupid. Just take it. Your lips are blue.”