Steve flicks bottle cap number three onto the tarp covering the pool in his backyard.

He's sitting on the end of his diving board, letting his legs dangle beneath him. The cool November air stinging his cheeks goes unnoticed as he's already three beers deep before 11:00 am on a Sunday.

He's thinking about Barb.

He can't believe that over a year has gone by, and yet Nancy's friend with the big glasses and dumpy skirt is constantly on his mind.

He'd seen her that night.

The night of the party.

Through his window.

He'd seen her sitting right where he's sitting now.

Her posture had been haggard, head was drooping, legs were swaying slightly beneath her.

He could've spoken up. I thought your friend went home, he could've said to Nancy. She's sitting out there on the diving board.

He could've said that.

But then Nancy would have gone to her. And Steve wanted Nancy all to himself.

So he stayed quiet and Nancy was his and Barb was taken by the Demogorgon and killed and now Steve thinks about her every damn day.

More accurately, he thinks about her parents.

Nancy had dragged him to meet them.

That was depressing.

But Barb – she's just the tip of the iceberg.

Steve starts thinking about her and then he's thinking about all of it.

He doesn't really know where to go from here.

xxx

Steve's been sleeping a lot the past week.

He's not quite fully recovered from the concussion he suffered from his scuffle with Billy and a lot of days he doesn't even feel like getting out of bed.

He does though. He goes to school.

He keeps to himself mostly, but eats lunch with Nancy and Jonathan. They all try their best to ignore the tension there.

He avoids Billy Hargrove like the plague, but always seems to feel his eyes on him.

He bailed on his college applications. They're sitting, unfinished, on his kitchen table.

He doesn't even want to think about what his parents will say when they return, in one week, from his father's business trip to Paris.

So he doesn't think.

He sleeps.

xxx

He's buried under a pile of blankets when he wakes to someone calling his name.

The voice is faint, disjointed.

"Do –ou co-py? Steve? Do you copy?"

It's dark out and it takes Steve a moment to realize that the voice belongs to Dustin. And that it's coming from the Realistic® walkie-talkie the kid brought him a few days ago.

Steve groans because the walkie-talkie is sitting on his desk and his head always feels like it's going to explode when he goes from supine to sitting.

With great effort, Steve hoists himself up and sits on the edge of the bed. He pinches the bridge of his nose until some of the pressure subsides.

"Steve? Come in, Steve. Are you there?"

To avoid standing up, Steve reaches across the space separating himself from his desk and almost tips off the bed in the process.

"What, Henderson?" he says with a huff, once he has a handle on the device.

"Geez, hello to you to," Dustin returns. "Lemme guess. You were sleeping?"

"Nothing better to do," Steve says.

"There is now," Dustin says. "Mike, Lucas, Will, and I are setting up to play Dungeons and Dragons. You should come. We're at the Byers' place."

Steve smiles a little fondly. Dustin hasn't left him alone since the night of Apocalypse Part II. None of the ankle biters have. There's always someone to come by and make sure he's still alive and kicking.

Because, you know, concussion.

"Look, I don't even know how to play," Steve tells Dustin. "I'd just slow you guys down." Besides, he's not itching to go back to the Byers' place anytime soon. Every time he goes there he seems to wind up fighting monsters, human or otherworldly.

"You should just come and watch, then. Learn for next time," Dustin suggests. "Come on, man. You know you want to."

Steve runs a hand through his greasy hair, takes a glance outside his window. It's raining, and picking up pace. "Is that so?"

"Yup," Dustin says proudly. "You just don't know it yet."

If Steve's being honest with himself, it does sound kind of appealing. As much as he would deny it if he was asked, he really enjoys spending time with those kids. There's a kind of innocence and purity about them, something you don't ever see once you reach high school.

The problem is, his head is pounding. He's exhausted and has a deep ache in his bones. He regrets the fact that the only thing he's put in his body this date is cheap beer.

If he going to commit to this, he's going to have to eat something. Of substance.

And probably take a shower.

"I'll see if I can make it over," he tells Dustin.

"Yes!" Dustin exclaims and Steve hears some whoops from Mike, too. "Over and out."

xxx

Steve decides that food is priority numero uno, so he goes downstairs to scrounge through the fridge. It's mostly empty, but Steve is able to conjure up some bread and some old slices of cheddar to make a grilled cheese sandwich.

He sits on the stool at the island counter, looking at the mess of empty beer bottles, soda cans, and pizza boxes he's neglected over the past couple of weeks. Gosh, he has a lot of cleaning up to do before his parents get home. Normally the place looks and feels like a museum.

The rain continues to pound against the sliding glass doors as Steve chews his sandwich. He hopes that the rain will have lightened up by the time he's finished with his shower and ready to head out.

As Steve chokes down his last bite of grilled cheese, he hears a car pull into the driveway. He slides off his stool to go take a look through the sidelight window by the front door.

His heart jumps into his throat at what he sees. He sees a cab, and Henry, his father – who isn't supposed to be due home for another week– is coming up the drive with his luggage in tow.

"Oh, shit. Shit, shit, shit," Steve mutters, backing away from the door, anticipating the lecture that is sure to befall. But then he realizes something about his dad.

Steve's mother isn't with him.

Puzzled, Steve swings open the front door and meets his dad halfway up the drive as the cab backs away slowly. A dumb move on Steve's part because he's barefoot and only wearing a T-shirt and sweatpants in November.

"Dad!" Steve yells a greeting, squinting through the rain. It's cold, and raining hard. Steve thinks he would rather have snow. He reaches to take one of his dad's bags. "You're back early. Where's Mom?"

Henry doesn't answer, just grunts and pushes past Steve to inside.

Steve follows.

"What's with all the newspapers in the driveway, Son?"

Steve swallows hard. If that was the first sentence out of his dad's mouth then he was really in for a treat.

Steve cards a nervous hand through his hair; he never reads the newspaper and he hadn't left the house much the past few days. Bringing the newspapers in hadn't even crossed his mind. "Sorry, Dad, I guess I just didn't get to—"

"Jesus, look at this place, Steven!" Henry interrupts angrily as he drops his bags by the stairs in the foyer. "Are you kidding me with this shit?"

"I know. I know it's bad," Steve placates, wishing he could say I've been a little busy fighting monsters. But his father's ire isn't what he's worried about right now. So he's asks again, "Where's Mom?"

Henry whips around to face him and Steve catches a strong whiff of alcohol on his breath. "She wouldn't get on the fucking plane," he spits. "Not another word about her, you hear?"

"What? You mean she's still back in Paris?"

"What did I just say?" Henry yells. "Not another word about that whore!" He grabs Steve's T-shirt by the collar and slams him against the island counter.

Turns out his father's ire is exactly what he should be worried about right now.

Steve feels his lower back connect with the marble and the pain radiates all the way down his to his feet. "Holy shit," he whispers, breath caught in his chest from the blow. And the shock – his dad's a real asshole, but he's never laid a hand on him before. "Dad, I think you're really drunk. Just calm down, alright?"

"Calm down?" Henry lets go of Steve's shirt, pushes him roughly away. "Calm down?"

There's a wild look in his eye that Steve's never seen before. He needs to get out of here… He needs to…

A beer bottle comes hurtling at his head and Steve ducks just in time for it to miss and shatter against the wall behind him. The surprise knocks him off his feet and he winds up flat on his ass, covering his head with his arms.

"Ungrateful, irresponsible…" Henry is spewing insults as four more bottles shatter over him.

Then it all stops. Steve can feel himself shaking. Wonders how hurt he is. Wonders if he's bleeding. Wonders if his dad is going to kill him.

"Get the hell out of my sight!" his father roars.

Steve doesn't need to be told twice. He scrambles to his feet and races to the front door.

He doesn't stop running.

He doesn't look back.