WHISTLEBLOWER | ❝It only gets stranger...❞
Hawkins has never looked back on the events of November 1983. They know the surface-level story. 'The boy who came back to life.' Will Byers is alive and well, while the futile search for Tonya McCarth...
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MONDAY 5th NOVEMBER, 1984
DAPHNE is sure that everyone in the Camaro right now is a sight for sore eyes. A bloodied and bruised Steve at the wheel, chugging along at the slowest legal speed possible, while she cradles her sprained wrist in her scarf-sling next to him. Meanwhile, in the back, four kids are squashed together, one of them trying his best to elevate a possibly twisted ankle. Not to mention the bickering from the back — if she was ever this insufferable at thirteen, Daphne wishes she could go back and strangle her younger self. She can't even bother to match the names to the voices:
"Ow! Will you watch where you're putting your arms?"
"I wasn't putting them anywhere, stop whining—"
"Whining? You were basically karate-chopping my leg!"
"He's right, Dustin!"
"I'm sorry, I wasn't aware there was a coup against me!"
"Are you guys seriously arguing over this, after we almost died down there...?"
"We're not arguing— OW! DUSTIN!"
"That wasn't me, I swear on my life! That was Max!"
"How the hell was that me? I'm not even near him—"
"Guys, could you keep it down back there?" Daphne finally pipes up, although not very loudly. She's too tired for that. And clearly Steve is, too, for she can see him wincing at the loud noises behind him.
But they don't seem to hear her, for they just keep on squabbling. Daphne sinks a little lower into her seat, the top of the seatbelt knocking her chin. Right now this seems to overpower any relief or worry she has about the whole situation with the Upside Down. Indeed, there's one thing she took away from tonight, it's this — her romanticism of having children when she's older has been squashed like a bug.
She's ready to complain more when the Camaro suddenly pulls over to the side of the road. It jolts lightly to a halt, the driver's seat swinging open as it's barely stopped. "Steve?" Daphne asks, confused. "What's going on?"
"I'm gonna be sick," he simply blurts out.
Staggering out of the car, he stands at the side on the grass and puts his hands on his knees, hunched over waiting for something to happen. Daphne hastily fiddles with the seatbelt and escapes from its clutches to follow him out. She jogs over to his side, the pool of the car headlights illuminating them from the back. "You sure you're alright? What's wrong?" she asks nervously. Daphne can't help but stare at his head, remembering how many times it had been battered earlier.
