enzo's, friday, 7:00 p.m.

i still feel your hand in mine

Joyce wakes and flings the covers away, breathing heavily. For a few seconds, the room gleams, shrouded in the same fiery light from her dream. It fades away, leaving her in the dark of her bedroom. She is cold and her hands shake in her lap as she blinks, sleep still clinging to her eyes. The telephone rings, causing her to jump. She stands up, nearly falling over some packed cardboard boxes sitting on the worn carpet. The ringing grows louder and more shrill, making her ears hurt.

She proceeds down the hallway—forgetting to turn on the lights—and grabs for the damned phone, desperate to silence it.

Joyce listens, expecting to hear his voice, but she doesn't. She tangles the phone cord around her finger as she waits. Her voice cracks.

"Hopper?"

No response. She sighs, wondering at the reason for the late call. Her mouth feels dry.

"Hop?"

Her sleep-deranged mind registers the insistent beeping of a one-sided conversation. She closes her eyes and listens to it for a while longer as the heaviness sinks in. She leans against the wall as she remembers the light from her dream. She had imagined the ringing phone.

Joyce hangs up. She picks the phone up again. She dials, knowing she won't hear his voice no matter how much she misses it. She hangs up.

She doesn't go back to her room.

Joyce stumbles to the living room, turns on a lamp, and sits on the couch. She lights a cigarette, trying not to think about stolen Russian uniforms or strawberry slurpees.

She tries not to think about how this is different than when Bob died. After his death, nightmares didn't leave her. She relived the sight of that monster killing him over and over again.

Now, she hardly sleeps at all. When she does, she dreams of Jim's face right before she turned the keys.

She tries not to think about how empty she feels; how the kids can see her emptiness even though she doesn't want them to.

A few days ago at work, she rearranged a Fourth of July clearance display. She heard boots walking into Melvald's while using a label gun, causing her to run down the aisle to the front of the store, her heart beating fast, only to see a man she'd never met before. He asked where he could find the alarm clocks.

"That feeling—it never goes away. But it's true—you know. What they say. Every day, it gets a little bit easier."

Joyce takes a long drag before she smashes the cigarette into the ashtray. She doesn't reach for another one.

"No, it doesn't." A tear runs down her cheek and falls onto the pack of Camels lying in her lap. "It really doesn't, Hop."

He sat in her room with her the night Bob died. He comforted her as they searched for Will and took him to his checkups. He used to be indestructible, that man; permanent. He had advice for everything.

But how do you mourn a man who gives you that much light? What advice would he have for her about how to deal with his death?

She glances at the side table and notices a small pile of treasured books she gave to El. Little Women sits on top, so she reaches for it, desperate for some form of distraction. Her hands trail over the cracked, taped cover. The pages smell bittersweet.

"You're awake."

She jumps and turns around to see Eleven standing behind the couch. She's wearing one of Joyce's old t-shirts and a pair of flannel pajama pants. Joyce clears her dry throat.

"I couldn't sleep."

The girl doesn't respond; she walks around the couch and sit next to Joyce, staring at the book.