𝔟𝔞𝔡 𝔦𝔫𝔣𝔩𝔲𝔢𝔫𝔠𝔢 ; 𝔢. 𝔪𝔲𝔫𝔰𝔬𝔫

⁰⁵

Ransacking through the kitchen was a difficult activity in a family of six — well, five, since Mike is M.I.A.

I sought to find things to bring Eddie. You know, just the vital things you would need to live in a barn while wanted for murder.

I felt like Mike. I mean, it's feasible this is what he did while El was undercover in our basement. Just, my subject certainly isn't bald. In fact, the furthest from it I've ever seen.

I left my duffel ajar on the countertop, ravaging through the pantry for all of our canned soups, microwave dinners. Imperishables, basically. My bag was laden already with billowy, spare comforters, pillows, some of my father's outgrown clothing, hygiene products, and now, food.

Oh, and regrettably, hair product. Hair product for curls.

I was so immersed in Eddie's 'care package' that I completely neglected the looming presence of my father in the Lazy Boy, fixed on me from the next room.

"What are you doing?" He says quizzically, in his drawling voice.

My heart leapt to my throat, my eyes gaping. I let out an anxious chuckle, glancing over my shoulder and giving him a mawkish smile, giving my best effort to convey normalcy.

"Sleepover." I confirm, slinging the cumbersome bag over my shoulder and starting towards the door.

My father gives a dismissive grunt, rather engrossed in all of the latest scandals airing on the local news.

I hasten out to my car, nonchalantly scanning my surroundings and each exposed window to be sure my mother wasn't dawdling by. Once I'm certain I won't debacle any of my mother's stability, I toss the bag into my trunk, before clambering into the drivers seat.

As I navigate downtown Hawkins, I take note of how void everything is. It's like — a ghost town. Well, yes, in reality, it is. But you understand. It looks depleted. Vacant.

In actuality, all of the bloodshed is working as some sort of repellent to the people in the town. Not even the usual residence of pitiful drunks were sitting in the window of the local bar. Everyone was far too petrified to step even a toe downtown.

Which was nonsensical, really. I mean — murders practically coincide with towns. You have a paltry, yet populous town, you know that murders will occur. Some people take squabbles to a completely different level. And no, I'm not entertaining the frivolous idea that violence solves all things. But murders are everywhere. Not just in movies. People still need to live.

I pull into the meek subdivision that clustered around Lover's Lake, following all the bends and inclines in the road, abiding by Steve's directions.

Honestly, I was more skittish than I thought I'd be. The light suspended over the barn door had been obstructed, which I'm praying was something of Eddie or the group's doings. I parked in the gravel, yanking my key out of the ignition and stuffing it into the pocket of my cardigan. I meander around the back of the car, opening the trunk, grabbing my bag and a flashlight before trudging through the lawn towards the barn.

I drum on the aluminum door with my fingers, saying in my most genial voice possible "Eddie. Hey, it's me. Can — I come in?"

I slowly prod open the door, peeking inside and seeing the specimen frolicking with a lighter, his eyes glued on the waltzing flame. I smile graciously, closing the door and barricading it, by embedding a broom into the handle.

Striding over to him as reticently as possible, his eyes finally flounder to me, the zaniness draining from them.

"Hi," I say lowly, in a tremulous, yet warm voice. I kneel down in front of him, brandishing a swift smile. Talking to Eddie in this instance felt like talking to a martian. "I brought you some things from home, if you want it." I unzip my duffel, emptying it's contents onto the concrete floor. "Bedding, pillows, clothes, hygiene products, food — and, I reckoned you'd want these." I hand him a pack of cigarettes I found in our junk drawer, sparsely smiling at him. "That good?"