Mike stands beside Will, staring at the small, wood cross buried in the dirt. The cross marks a grave without a body, a small reminder of the strange girl that inexplicably, miraculously stumbled into the woods near Mirkwood on a cold, rainy night in November.

Mike resented the idea of a funeral, a memorial.

If we have a funeral, it means we've given up on her!

He spit the words in Hopper's face, choking back the tears, his grief manifesting into rage. He gave in, though, because Hopper and Joyce insisted, because what else is there to do?

He hasn't let himself cry, not since the night she disappeared. As they stand in a small, silent circle, staring at the cross, it bursts out of him, angrily, almost violently. He wipes furiously at his eyes as the tears slip down his pale, freckled cheeks. Will touches his arm. Dustin puts a hand on his shoulder. He takes a deep breath, trying to pull his shattered pieces back together. He tries to be brave, strong.

The tears fall onto the crinkled paper clutched in his hand. Scribbled across the paper, under the tears and the bleeding ink, a eulogy.

The Chief clears his throat, reaches to pat Mike's shoulder, gently.

Mike takes another breath and squeezes his eyes shut.

"El . . . she . . ." He begins. His voice trembles, dips. He sniffs, wipes his nose with his sleeve.

"El saved us." He gets out, and swallows. He glances at the paper, then at the cross. The wind sweeps through the tree branches, bare as bones. His breath hitches, gets snarled and tangled in his throat. Under the wind and the ruffling of dead leaves, her voice reaches his ears, shrouded in the larger silence.

Mike . . .

"El saved us. She's brave. She's smart." He pauses, takes another breath.

You're still present tense.

"She knows. . . things. More than any of us could know, and she helped us. If . . . if it weren't for her, Will wouldn't be here, and . . ." He sniffs, staring at the ground. "And she's not . . . not g-gone. She's still out there, and I h-haven't given up on her." The tears fall thick and fast, now. The paper is reduced to a crumpled ball in his fist.

"Mike . . ."

"She's out there, somewhere. Alone. But she's alive. I know. I know she's alive."

He crosses some line. Something breaks, inside him. And someone, his mother, wraps him in a hug. He weeps, tears squeezing out of closed eyelids, mouth twisted in an agonized grimace. Vaguely, he wonders how it's possible to feel so much, to hurt so deeply for someone he barely knew.

But he knew her. He trusted her.

Maybe he's too young, to feel so much.

But he loved her.

He knows her. He trusts her. He loves her.

Because she's still present tense, to him.