heaven-sent | b.h.

13.

The sun is setting behind the trees as Frances digs through the soil frantically. Billy hovers behind her, his eyebrows furrowed in bewilderment as he flicks his lighter in his hand.

"Fran, let me do it," he says for the fifth time.

Frances shakes her head, smearing dirt on her cheek as she brushes her hair from her face. "No. I've got this. You should go."

Billy lets out a harsh chuckle. "Yeah, right. Just give me the damn spade." He snatches it from her hands forcefully, continuing Frances's job. The stench of rotting makes Frances want to gag as he unearths dead worms and corroding vines. "Remind me again what we're lookin' for?"

"My dad," she whispers, her voice cracking as she begins to pace nervously.

"Right, your dad," he nods, chucking soil behind him aggressively and barely missing Frances in the process. His denim jacket has been abandoned on the ground, and his back muscles ripple beneath his white shirt. "He bury himself alive a lot? Is there some kind of Hopper family ritual I should know about?"

Before Frances can reply, the spade hits something hard, causing Billy to stop. She crouches over the hole, her stomach twisting, Grey, mangled vines cover the ground, pulsating as though they're alive.

"What the fuck?" Billy mutters as he crouches beside Frances.

"You need to go home," Frances orders steadily, her voice no longer dismissive, but final. "Now."

"No. You need to tell me what's going on."

She straightens, snatching the spade from him, and he stands to tower over her with a frown. "I mean it, Billy. Go home."

"Why?"

"Because I'm going down there, and you're not." She sighs in frustration, digging her spade into the vines with as much force as she can muster and watching with wide eyes as they separate, leaving an opening.

"You're bat-shit fuckin' crazy," he scoffs, shaking his head as he sticks a cigarette in his mouth, "Y'know that?"

"I'm not playing around!" she shouts, pulling the cigarette from his mouth and picking up his jacket. She shoves it into his chest and he grabs it, his mouth agape in surprise. "Go!"

His expression turns to stone. "No. I don't know what the fuck's going on—"

"That's right, you don't!" she yells. "All you need to know is that if you go down there with me, if you even stick around up here waiting for me to come out, nothing will ever be the same for you. There's shit that happens here that you don't need to know about—that you shouldn't have to know about. It's better you walk away now, get in your fucking car, and drive away. This isn't a game, Billy. My dad is down there, and I don't have time to argue with you—"

"Then stop arguing," he growls, throwing down his jacket violently. "If you're going down there, angel, I'm going with you."

From the corner of her eye, Frances notices a car pulling into the field next to Hopper's—Joyce's car. Her headlights illuminate Frances and Billy in silver, casting shadows against the pine trees.

"Go," she pleads, pushing against his chest. This time, he's ready for her force, and he catches her wrist, stumbling back only slightly. "Go home, please!"

"No!" he shouts as Joyce gets out of the car. Bob is with her, she sees, and behind them, a pale-looking Will and Mike. No Jonathan, though.

She sighs, looking him dead in the eye. A stray curl falls over his eyes, and his face is splattered with dirt like hers. His eyes glisten with the same, hard stubbornness she feels in herself. "Then it's your fucking funeral."