Three suitcases, two rolling book bags, his duffel, and a coat his mother bought; the process took her three trips. He hadn't even bothered getting up from the kitchen table, just sat with his cold coffee in front of him, eyes hollow, hands cupped in front of his face. Watching her go wasn't nearly as sweet as all those blues songs made it seem. Two months and she'd already moved on. He'd known she was seeing someone and what was the point in fighting her on it anymore? Who she chose to spread those pretty little legs to wasn't his call anymore. That didn't mean he didn't feel the sting when the guy showed up to grab those suitcases.

When he kissed her, Hopper stood, fists clenched at his side. He went to the dining room table, stared numbly at the wall, didn't bother with a glass for the bourbon, just drank from the bottle. Diane was speaking to him –something about how sorry she was and how she wished him well, how her new number was on the counter and 'feel free to call.' But Hopper didn't blink, didn't budge. Not when she kissed him on the temple and told him he needed to shave his beard and not when that door slammed behind her.

Two months had gone by since Sara and he could still feel the ache of the empty room every time he passed it. Maybe that was why Diane was okay with moving out and leaving him the place: she couldn't take the memories anymore. Must be nice to just walk away from this, he thought. For Hopper, there was no walking away. Every corner of the home held memories. Like the plethora of casseroles they still hadn't eaten, gone stale in the fridge. Why everyone thought a fucking casserole was going to fix anything he didn't know. Besides, he was barely eating anyway.

His sleep was filled with images of Sara. Pretty white lilies all around because they were her favorite, tiny frame sheathed in the pale pink dress that made her look even less vibrant – she'd asked for it specifically that last night he held her hand through the coughing and the fever. They shouldn't make caskets that tiny, it wasn't right.

The ringing in his ears wouldn't stop and he had to be on shift in six hours but he couldn't sleep. He was used to sleeping in a bed alone by now, that was for damn sure. Between the countless nights of sleeping in a hospital or the ever-so-recent turn of events when his wife just didn't come home. And before that, it was the fighting that left one of them crashed on the couch or sleeping in the bathtub because – damn it – he wasn't sleeping in Sara's room.

Stumbling to the kitchen, Hopper fished through cabinets in search of the next vice. And, ah, there she was: sweet salvation on the kitchen table: Bell's Whiskey. Cheap, but the shit did the trick. He killed the bottle.

•••

"Parking duty!? Cap, you're fuckin' with me."

Bright and early Thursday morning, hangover and all, Hop slammed the assignment down on Captain Lark's desk. Third day of parking duty that week. The annoyance in the room was evident from the both of them, but Hopper pushed.

"I don't know what you're so mad about. I'm giving you time, Jim. You need time."

"What I need is for you to get your head outta your ass. I'm fine."

"You smell like whiskey and I don't think you've washed that uniform in weeks. All your razors broken, hot stuff?"

Hopper growled, shaking his head. "Let me on something. I need something other than fucking parking duty, you hear me? I can't take another damn day of this! Give me somethin'."

Larks looked at him, raising a brow. "You finish out this week without another outburst, we'll maybe think of putting you on something."

"Captain?" another officer interrupted them and Hopper didn't even try to make himself disappear. He was hoping for a case and if he was right about the tone, they just picked up a weird one. "Frank just got a call…" the officer paused when noticing Hopper.

"Hop, out!" Larks called, tossing tickets toward him. Hopper gave him the finger before leaving.

Coffee. Mornings needed coffee.

A trip to Gulf was in order. Nothing better for a hangover than a gas station brew.

"Hey, Hop, what's new?" he'd come to know Mr. Wilkins really well in his time in Bloomington. "How're ya holdin' up?"

"Fine. Just fine, Ed. Thanks." He tried not to make eye contact, deciding instead to focus on the missing persons pictured on the plastic that separated them. "Pack 'a Camels while you're at it."

Soft music played over the crappy speakers. He liked this gas station only because no one ever came in it. No one to recognize him and ask how Diane was or talk to him about the funeral and how nice of a service it was or how Sara looked so good. No, she hadn't. Sickness had taken the vibrancy away from his daughter and he'd been fighting like mad to remember that healthy little girl and not the broken shell cancer left behind.

His thoughts were interrupted when he noticed someone else was in there. Young – maybe 20 – pale, tiny. Wrinkled up, torn white shirt falling off her shoulder, scar visible on the white skin. Stealing. Six bags of chips tucked in her shirt which she used as a sort of bag, lifting up to expose more scarred up skin, a few dark stitches torn on her hip. Hopper scrunched his face.

"Ya know I'm standin' right here," he droned, arms crossed over his chest.

And the girl stilled, head shot up in his direction and he saw the dark, bruise-like circles under her eyes. She dropped the chips and ran. The coffee wasn't ready, but the cigs were so Hopper dropped a ten on the counter, grabbed the pack, and ran after her, telling Wilkins to keep the change.

"Hey, stop!" he was a few feet behind her. He had the advantage with longer legs, but she was pretty quick. Not quick enough to dart in front of the semi that was blaring its horn at her. He managed to grab her around the shoulders and swing her back away from the street. Gasping, Hopper narrowed his eyes at her and caught his breath. "What's your name?" Silence. She tried to wriggle away so he put more pressure on her shoulders and she flinched. "What's. Your. Name."

"Julie," she finally spoke.

Jim stood at full height, still one hand on her shoulder. "You know I should arrest you for stealing." She was quiet, eyes glaring at the dirt below her feet. His fingers itched to grab the cuffs, but his conversation with Larks rang in his head and he really wasn't interested in making the boss happy. The girl looked like she hadn't eaten in days. "I should," he droned on. "but because of you I didn't get my coffee." He glanced up and across the street where Gayle's Diner was. "You hungry?"

Julie looked up at him, mouth open, big brown eyes looking at him like he was playing some awful joke on her.

Hopper didn't want to play nice. He wasn't feeling nice. He was feeling the throbbing of a headache – no doubt from the hangover – a rumbling in his stomach, and now he'd pulled something in his leg from running after her. He'd take her to the station after breakfast. He'd just drop her off, not give a damn. She looked like a long, hard road for someone so young, but she shouldn't have been dumb enough to try stealing in front of a cop.

She tried jumping out of the squad car. Twice. First time he locked it on her, second time she lifted the lock on the door and Hop grabbed her arm. Held it until he parked then took a good look at her.

The jeans she wore were ripped as well, her hair was knotted and falling over her shoulders, a cluster of freckles splayed lightly across her nose. She'd almost be pretty if she'd just clean up.

"You aren't from around here, are ya?" he asked to which silence followed. "Look, this is gonna work swimmingly if ya just answer my damn questions."

"No."

"No?" he raised an eyebrow. "No you're not from around here, or no you aren't answering my questions?" More silence. "Are you hungry or not? And no running or I swear to God I'm booking you now."

Julie managed to stay put while they walked in the diner, didn't run, didn't cause a scene. She looked timid and ashamed at the weird glances she was getting from the patrons and Hop shook his head, agitated.

She spoke to the waitress to order. Voice strong and clear, so he knew she wasn't mute or some shit. And then when it was just the two of them there was silence again. He tried waiting her out – really did – but there were just so many questions and this was no doubt a case and he was willing to feed a perp just to have this handed to him.

"Julie," he spoke her name softer now, trying a different approach. She looked up under her eyelashes at him. "What's your last name?"

There was a moment of contemplation, but she pursed her lips, hung her head, sighed, and looked back before saying, "Preston."

His mind scanned through the names he'd read just moments before he saw her, wondering if there was a missing persons on her. But he couldn't remember a Julie Preston.

"Where are you from?"

"Are you starting a file on me right now?" she asked, tightening her fists on the table.

"No. No, slugger, put those away," he nodded to her hands then sat back as the waitress approached and poured him his much awaited coffee. Julie took some too and he noticed she drank it black. "How old are you?"

"Twenty-five." She sipped the drink, humming softly. Shit, she looked young. Twenty, he'd thought originally. He noticed she didn't mention her hometown. "And who are you?"

"Officer Hopper," he pulled out a bottle of pills, downed two of them. "Are you ever gonna tell me where you're from?" This was the third time he was asking.

"Mississippi," she spoke quietly.

"Mind tellin' me why you look like Hell? Better yet why ya stealing?"

She scoffed, looking away. "You don't really know how to talk to women, do you?" Hopper almost dropped the pills out of his mouth at her bluntness.

"Are you fuckin'-" but she held up a hand and cut him off.

"You're on the job and I'm sure your supervisor would love to hear that dirty mouth you have when you talk to a lady." She raised an eyebrow.

Hopper sat straighter. "A thief," he corrected. "I liked you better when you didn't speak."

She laughed at that and he noticed that her smile was the only really pretty thing about her. "I get that a lot."

"I imagine," he huffed, pulling out the pack of smokes he bought, unwrapping them, then tapping it twice before slipping a cig out of the pack and between his lips. He held it there while he pocketed them again and pulled out a light. She looked at him, surprised. "You smoke?" he was about to extend the pack to her but she held up her hand and shook her head. Slipping it between his fingers, he exhaled through his nose then slid the ash tray closer. "You a runaway?"

Another long pause followed that comment and Hopper was almost getting used to this. "In a way." She fidgeted in her seat and glanced out the window nervously, doing a double-take to which Hopper followed. Her eyes were on a blue Sedan but she looked back at him quickly and he couldn't help but stare at the scared expression on her face.

"So you're runnin' from somethin'." He nodded at that, tapping the ashes off. "Crazy ex-boyfriend?" he assumed that was the case, as it usually was with a twenty-something girl who looked like Hell. But they usually brought a suitcase and they were usually hiding out at a friend's place until things simmered down. And then he remembered the scars and stitches adorning what little he'd seen of her body. "He get hands-y? Knock you around?"

She went straight-faced again, mouth a hard line, jaw clenching and unclenching. Her back was to the kitchen, but her head snapped in the direction of the waitress who literally just walked out with their food. She was busy staring at the blueberry pancakes and the hash brown casserole, but her hand jutted out just in time to grab the bottle of syrup that tumbled from the waitress' tray. She placed it before Hopper like it was nothing, then began eating.

There was nothing else to say between their bites of food, so Hopper tried to enjoy the silence but his mind kept drifting.

"We'll go to the station after this."

She stopped chewing, swallowed hard, and shook her head slowly. "Please, please don't."

"You should'a thought 'a that before you tried stealing in front of a cop."

"No, you don't understand. Don't take me there. Don't tell anyone you found me."

Hopper stopped eating, sipped his coffee slowly. "You do realize it's my job." She stilled, nodding slowly. The pure fear on her face made Hopper stop mid-chew. "Are you running from a cop? From one of us?" It wouldn't be the first time an officer went abusive on a woman and he didn't know much about any of the young guys so it was plausible. He waited for her answer but she gave him a small shake of the head before taking tiny bites of food. "Fuck…" he muttered under his breath, running his hand down his beard.

Julie bit her lower lip, looking out the window for a few minutes. "Is your coffee good?" she asked quietly and Hopper almost didn't hear her, but he nodded.

"Yep. Better than gas station coffee so I guess this all worked out." He wiped syrup from his mouth. "Look, I wanna help you, but you gotta give me a little too. Okay?"

She just stared a moment, pondering that before nodding stiffly. "I'll try."

"Good."

When the waitress came back, Julie asked where the ladies room was. With her gone, Hopper glanced toward his truck then paused mid-bite, tossing down his napkin as soon as she walked off. He waved down the waitress while chugging his coffee, paid for their meal, and made his way to his truck. Leaning against the hood, he crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes, waiting to see Julie.

Sure enough he watched the woman climb out of a window. He was sure she'd hurt herself in that fall, but she landed like a cat, glancing around before standing at full height and brushing herself off.

"Just full of surprises aren't you?" he called, arms still crossed, hoping she wouldn't run again. Fuck, don't run.

He watched her throw her head back in frustration, but turn on her heels and walk the opposite direction. Hopper jogged toward her, the sun doing nothing for his migraine. He pulled her on the shoulder once again and she seethed but he was adamant and maybe a little too curious for his own good. Fingers splayed out in innocence, he sent her a look before pulling her shirt collar down over her shoulder, the way it was when he first noticed her. There, in one solid white line, was a scar that went shoulder blade to collarbone and then back again in the form of a jagged 'z'.

She pulled away with all her strength and sent a warning glance at the officer, sliding her shirt back to its proper place.

"I don't have an ex-boyfriend," she admitted.

"Then wha-"

Her eyes glanced around before she did the most curious thing: she took his hand in hers and stared him in the eye. "Can I trust you? Can we talk somewhere…quieter?"

Hopper was taken aback. Though there were no people around, he could feel the intensity of the moment and decided that he had nothing to lose. He was wasting the day chasing this girl and not writing tickets, but the only person who would give a damn was the Captain and he wanted to stick it to him like no other. Getting involved in a case was what he needed right now. Not mindlessly writing tickets. This. The girl. Runaway. Strange scars. This was where he needed to be. Away from the thoughts that clawed him whole.

So he sat her in the front seat of his truck and cursed himself for his stupidity. But she looked more frightened than determined. That blunt little spitfire in the diner was long gone as she tensed up, eyes taking in every inch of his squad car. If she meant to try anything, she'd have done it by now.

"You lookin' for somethin'?"

"This thing isn't bugged is it?"

"What? No," he said flatly.

She nodded stiffly, apparently content with his reaction "I just…can't trust police with this I don't think."

"With what?"

"Who do you answer to?"

What a strange question. "Uh…the Captain if I'm feelin' straight-edge, I guess."

She pondered this. "And who does he answer to?"

"I'm not seeing where this is goin' so…" he reached to start the engine but her hands were against the sleeve of his uniform.

"Last time I went to the cops, bad things happened."

He dropped his keys in his lap. "'Bad things'?" he repeated. "What kind of things?"

Julie was silent again, almost as if she'd lost her nerve and Hopper was trying to be patient, he was, but if this was some kinda gang-related thing it'd be out of his hands and Captain Larks would put it on the plates of his suck-up fuck buddies Rick and Alan. Again.

"They took me back."

"They?"

She nodded stiffly. "Please, just take me somewhere safe."

And maybe it was the hangover talking or the desperate innocent look in her eyes or his own pure curiosity or the fact that he was pissed at Larks. Whatever the case may be, his house was six blocks away and he drove her there without another word spoken.