(user Jonathan)

The basement of WSQK was dim, lit by a few humming overhead bulbs and the soft crackle of broken radio equipment. Dust floated in the stale air, disturbed only when someone shifted restlessly. Joyce sat at the end of a folding table, hands wrapped around a mug of cold coffee she’d forgotten to drink, while Robin tried to tune the battered receiver into something other than static.

Will and Mike sat on overturned crates against the wall. Nancy leaned against a support beam, arms crossed tight. With Jonathan and Steve gone to grab food, the room felt too empty—and much too quiet.

Joyce broke first. “Robin? Nancy? Did Jonathan say where they were heading? It’s getting dark and I—”

“They’re okay,” Nancy said softly. “Steve wouldn’t let anything happen.”

Joyce nodded, but her fingers trembled around the mug.

Will noticed. “Mom… what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she said too fast. “Just… thinking.”

Nancy exchanged a look with Robin, then stepped closer. “Joyce… can I ask you something?”

Joyce blinked. “Of course.”

Nancy hesitated—then gently: “Do you know what Jonathan went through at the hospital? Back in July of ’85?”

Joyce became very still.

Robin looked up from the radio. Will and Mike fell silent.

“Tom Holloway and Bruce Lowe,” Nancy continued quietly. “When they… changed. When we were trapped in that hallway. Jonathan was the one they went after first.”

Joyce felt a jolt of sick fear. “He never told me that.”

Nancy swallowed. “He stepped in front of me over and over. Even when he could barely stand. He was bleeding so badly he could hardly see, but he wouldn’t leave me. He kept saying he was fine—he wasn’t.”

Joyce’s heart twisted. Jonathan, bruised. Jonathan, hiding it. Jonathan, swallowing every pain because someone else needed him more.

Robin added softly, “He does that a lot. Pretends he’s okay, even when he’s clearly not.”

Will looked down, voice barely above a whisper. “Jonathan always protects us. He never lets us see when he’s the one hurting.”

Mike nodded slowly. “He hides stuff better than anyone. Like… he doesn’t want to be a problem.”

Invisible. Overlooked. A child who learned to stay quiet so others could get the attention they needed.

Joyce felt the words physically. Her breath shook. “How… how did I not see that?”

Robin sat back on her heels. “I don’t think he realizes he deserves help too.”

Will gently touched his mother’s arm. “Mom… you didn’t do anything wrong.”

But Joyce wasn’t convinced.

The radio gave a burst of static, making Robin flinch.

And then—footsteps on the stairs outside the basement.

Steve’s voice, muffled but unmistakably irritated: “Dude, I told you not to carry the bags if your leg hurts that bad—”

Jonathan’s tired voice answered, low and dismissive: “I said I’m fine. Seriously. It’s nothing.”

The group exchanged tense looks.

Because this time, Joyce heard it. The denial. The need to disappear into the background. The way her eldest had taught himself to be unnoticeable, uncomplaining… unseen.

The basement door creaked.

Jonathan wasn’t inside yet, but Joyce already felt her chest tightening with a truth she should have seen years ago:

Her son had been breaking quietly. And he’d learned to do it alone.