Eddie Munson was a terrible driver.
"Clutch, Eddie! Clutch!"
"I'm clutching!" The van lurched forward, died. Eddie smacked the steering wheel. "Your uncle's piece of shit hates ."
"My uncle's van is fine. You're the problem." I leaned back in the passenger seat, trying to maintain patience. "Try again. Slowly this ti."
We were in the empty Starcourt Mall parking lot—construction had stalled for permit issues, leaving acres of smooth asphalt perfect for teaching talheads to drive. Fourth lesson, and Eddie had yet to make it through all the gears without stalling.
"Why am I learning this again?" Eddie turned the key, engine rumbling to life.
"Because when things go wrong, you need to be mobile."
"There you go with the paranoia again." But Eddie engaged the clutch carefully, eased into first gear. The van moved forward without dying. "Hey! I did it!"
"Great. Now shift to second."
Eddie's tongue stuck out in concentration as he worked through the gear changes. His natural chaos made him fight the vehicle's rhythm instead of flowing with it, but slowly—painfully slowly—he was improving.
"You know," Eddie said during a break, "you've gotten really weird this past year. Like, weirder than usual weird."
"Thanks."
"I'm serious. Training middle schoolers. Stockpiling supplies. Teaching to drive like the apocalypse is coming. What's going on in that head of yours, Harrington?"
The apocalypse is coming. In 92 days. And I need everyone I care about to have the skills to survive it.
"Just want my friends to be capable," I said instead. "Independent. Able to handle ergencies."
"Ergencies requiring combat training and supply caches?"
"You never know."
Eddie stared at for a long mont, then restarted the van. "Fine. Keep your secrets. But when whatever you're worried about actually happens, I'm going to say 'I told you so' really loudly."
"Deal."
Eddie
Eddie Munson had learned to read people during years of being the town freak.
You developed that skill when everyone assud the worst about you. When teachers watched for cheating. When parents clutched their kids closer when you walked past. When the only way to survive was understanding who actually ant you harm versus who just didn't understand you.
Steve Harrington had changed. Not gradually—that would have been easier to track. But in sharp stages over the past three years. Each ti Eddie noticed, Steve was different. More focused. More intense. Carrying invisible weight that made him seem older than eighteen.
And the preparation. God, the preparation. It was obsessive. Military-level planning for threats Eddie couldn't identify. Training kids to fight. Hiding weapons around town. Learning to heal people through so impossible power Eddie had only heard about secondhand.
Steve was becoming sothing between protector and soldier, and Eddie didn't know whether to be impressed or concerned.
Probably both.
"You're doing better," Steve said as Eddie successfully navigated a figure-eight pattern. "Another few weeks, you'll be road-ready."
"Just in ti for the mystery disaster?"
"Exactly."
Eddie wanted to push for real answers. But Steve's expression had that closed quality that ant he wouldn't—couldn't—explain yet. So Eddie just practiced the turns and gear shifts and trusted that his weird jock friend knew what he was doing.
Even if what he was doing looked increasingly like preparing for war.
Steve
RadioShack on a Tuesday afternoon was nearly empty except for and the guy behind the counter.
Bob Newby. SuperCom founder. Earnest, kind, hopelessly uncool Bob who would die in a year saving everyone from demo-dogs.
Unless I can prevent it. Unless this tiline is actually different.
But previous attempts—those fragnted mories from tilines I couldn't quite access—suggested Bob's death was a fixed point. Every ti I'd tried to save him, sothing worse happened. Soone else died. The tiline corrected itself violently.
Don't think about it. Just position him better. Give him advantages.
"Can I help you find sothing?" Bob approached with genuine custor service enthusiasm.
"Just browsing." I gestured at the electronics. "Actually, you're helping Joyce Byers with so electrical work, right?"
Bob blinked. "How did you—? Oh, you probably heard through town gossip. Yeah, her house has old wiring. I'm helping her upgrade safely."
"That's good of you." I grabbed a pack of batteries I didn't need. "Hey, random question—have you ever taken a first aid course?"
"First aid? That's an odd question."
"Just thinking about ergency preparedness. You work with electronics, sotis there are accidents. Might be useful to know CPR or how to treat electrical burns or whatever."
Bob's expression shifted to thoughtful. "You know, that's actually a good point. I'm at RadioShack a lot by myself. If sothing happened... yeah. I should probably learn basic first aid."
"Hawkins Community Center offers courses." I paid for the batteries. "Might be worth checking out."
"I will. Thanks for the suggestion, Steve."
I left before the conversation could get stranger. Bob Newby with first aid training. Bob Newby potentially more capable of handling ergencies. Small changes that might—might—give him better odds when the demo-dogs ca.
Or maybe I'm just making myself feel better, I thought. Maybe he dies anyway and I'm fooling myself that I can change it.
But I had to try.
Chrissy found the journal in early August.
I was upstairs grabbing snacks when I heard her call from my room: "Steve? What's this?"
My stomach dropped. I took the stairs two at a ti, already knowing what she'd found.
One of my coded journals lay open on my desk. Chrissy stood beside it, frowning at pages covered in cipher text.
"It's nothing," I said too quickly.
"It's not nothing. It's a code." She turned to face . "Why do you have journals written in code?"
"Personal stuff. Private."
"About November?" She pointed at one page where I'd written the date in plain text as a marker. "You have November 6th circled everywhere. Countdown tirs. References to 'dinsional gates' and 'the opening' and 'Will Byers.' What is all this?"
I closed the journal carefully. "I'll explain. When it's ti."
"When it's ti." Chrissy's voice went flat. "Steve, we've been together for months. You've got secret training sessions, mysterious healing powers Robin accidentally ntioned, supply caches hidden around town, and now coded journals about things happening in three months. When exactly is it ti?"
"November 6th," I said honestly. "After that, I'll explain everything."
"Why not now?"
Because you'll think I'm crazy. Because I can't prove anything until it actually happens. Because explaining I'm from another world and know the future sounds like psychotic delusion.
"Because the explanation won't make sense without context," I said instead. "And that context hasn't happened yet."
Chrissy crossed her arms, and I recognized the gesture—self-protection, bracing for disappointnt. "You're asking to trust you completely while telling nothing."
"Yeah. I know it's unfair."
"It is." Her voice cracked slightly. "I've been honest with you. About my mom, my anxiety, my eating issues. I trusted you with my real self. And you're keeping these massive secrets."
"I know." I moved closer, stopped when she stepped back. "Chrissy, I'm not keeping secrets because I don't trust you. I'm keeping them because explaining too soon could make things worse. Could put you in danger."
"Danger from what?"
"I can't tell you yet."
"Can't or won't?"
"Both."
She stared at for a long mont. Then she grabbed her bag. "I need space. To think about whether I can handle dating soone who won't let in."
"Chrissy—"
"November 6th, Steve. You said that's when you'll explain everything. So I'll wait until then. But after that, if you're still keeping secrets, I'm done."
She left. The front door closed with careful restraint—not slamming, which sohow made it worse.
I stood in my room, holding the coded journal, and felt the weight of impossible choices pressing down.
Chrissy
Chrissy Cunningham drove around Hawkins for an hour, crying and furious and confused.
Steve was keeping enormous secrets. That much was obvious. The coded journals. The training. The countdown to early November. The way he looked at his friends sotis like he was morizing them because they might disappear.
And she'd trusted him. Opened up about her mother's cruelty and her own struggles. Let him see the anxious, imperfect person beneath the cheerleader mask.
But he wouldn't do the sa for her.
Why November 6th? she thought, pulling into the Dairy Queen parking lot. What happens then? What does he know that he can't tell ?
Part of her wanted to be done. To walk away from the mystery and the secrets and find soone simpler. Soone who didn't train twelve-year-olds to fight or hide weapons around town or look at the calendar with dread.
But another part—the part that had fallen for Steve's genuine kindness and protective instincts—wanted to wait. Wanted to trust that he had reasons for the secrets. That November 6th would bring answers.
She sat in her car, eating a sundae she didn't really want, and made a choice.
Three months. I'll give him three more months. If he doesn't explain after November 6th, I'm out.
It wasn't much. But it was sothing.
Steve
August ended with the start of senior year and the weight of countdown tirs everywhere.
Teachers noticed my focus—straight-A student, always prepared, serious in ways most eighteen-year-olds weren't. I maintained the work because it was sothing I could control, unlike the approaching disaster.
Tommy and Carol barely acknowledged now. The gulf between King Steve's potential and what I'd actually beco had grown too wide to bridge. They'd moved on to other friends, other priorities. I didn't miss them.
The Party trained three tis a week now. They'd progressed from basic self-defense to practical combat scenarios. Mike could throw a decent punch. Lucas moved with tactical awareness. Dustin had morized all five cache locations. Will watched everything with those too-knowing eyes.
Robin helped update my tiline docuntation. Eddie learned to drive well enough to pass a test. Chrissy kept careful distance, waiting for November 6th.
And the backpack sat at 100%, charged and waiting, while I debated whether to extract now or wait until the actual crisis began.
My investnt portfolio hit $30,000. Apple stock continued climbing. I'd secured enough money to operate independently if everything went wrong.
The nights were the hardest. Lying awake, running through scenarios, checking and rechecking preparations. The compass pointed toward the lab with increasing insistence. Will's sketches of the Upside Down grew more detailed and accurate.
Everything was falling into place for sothing I desperately wished wouldn't happen.
62 days until November 6th.
62 days until Will Byers vanished and reality tore open and I had to put three years of preparation to the test.
Please let it be enough, I thought, standing in my basent at midnight surrounded by everything I'd built. Please let everyone survive.
But hope was dangerous. Hope made you believe you could control outcos that were always going to happen.
So I trained harder. Prepared more. And watched the calendar count down toward disaster.
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