Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The ladder wasn’t that high.

That’s what Will kept telling himself later, lying in the hospital bed, blinking at the ceiling tiles that seemed to spin even when he closed his eyes.
It wasn’t that high.

And yet, here he was.

But it had started long before the hospital. Earlier that day, the house had been full of noise and motion—Hopper hammering in the hallway, El flipping through magazines at the kitchen table, Joyce rushing around with a laundry basket balanced on her hip. Jonathan had music playing in his room, something moody and echoey that bled through the walls.

The Byers house was different now. Not worse, just different.

Ever since Joyce and Hopper had gotten married a few months back, the rooms felt fuller. There were more shoes by the front door, more coats hanging on hooks. Hopper had taken over the little laundry room and started fixing things around the house, like the leaky faucet and the sagging porch roof. Joyce was still Joyce, hovering and worrying, but there was less fear in her eyes now. Less of that haunted edge she used to carry around like a second skin.

Will had been doing better too, or at least pretending he was.

The nightmares had faded. The panic attacks were less frequent. He wasn’t seeing shadows where there were none, or freezing up in crowded rooms. Everyone kept telling him how proud they were. How strong he was. How “good” he looked now.

And he was trying, he really was.

But that afternoon, something shifted.

It was quiet for once. Hopper had gone out to the garage to grab something. Joyce was folding clothes. El had gone with Max to the mall. Will was alone in the hallway when he noticed the ladder.

It leaned against the open attic hatch. Hopper had been working on the wiring earlier that morning, muttering about a short in the hallway light. The top of the ladder disappeared into the ceiling, into the dark space Will had never seen before.

He glanced around.

No one was watching.

His hand touched the side of the ladder. Cold metal. Just a quick look, he told himself. Just for a second. He’d be careful.

He started to climb.

Each rung creaked a little under his weight, but he kept going. His heart beat faster, not from fear, but from excitement. It felt almost like when he used to sneak out to play D&D with his friends after curfew. Like he was doing something normal again.

He reached the top, poked his head into the attic

It was dusty and cramped, with old boxes and insulation spread like clouds across the floor. A single bulb swung from the ceiling, unlit. He leaned forward, curious, squinting at the shadows. He thought he saw something interesting—a box marked “Sara,” scrawled in faded Sharpie.

But then his foot slipped.

He gasped, flailed, tried to grab the side of the attic opening.

Too late.

The ladder tilted. His foot caught on the rung. His body twisted.

He fell hard.

The back of his head hit the hallway floor with a sickening crack.

Everything went black.

Chapter Text

Will woke to noise and pain.

A siren, loud and sharp. People shouting. Hopper’s voice, rough and panicked, yelling his name. Joyce crying, over and over again: “Will! Will, wake up. Please, baby, wake up!”

He couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move. Everything was spinning. There was blood—he could feel it, sticky and warm on the back of his neck.

Then nothing.

- - - - - - - - - - -

The next time he woke up, it was quieter.

He was in a hospital bed. Machines beeped steadily around him. The room was cold, too white. His head ached, but the pain was dull and slow now, tucked behind layers of medication. He blinked slowly, and when his eyes focused, he saw Joyce sitting beside him.

She was asleep in the chair, her hand wrapped around his. Her hair was a mess. Hopper sat in the corner, eyes red-rimmed, jaw clenched. El and Jonathan were there too—El curled up in the windowsill, her knees hugged to her chest. Jonathan had a sketchbook in his lap but wasn’t drawing.

They all looked tired. Worn out.

And guilty.

Will tried to speak, but his throat felt like sandpaper. Joyce stirred, blinking awake, then gasped when she saw his eyes open.

“Oh my god, Will, you’re awake,” she said, sitting up quickly, pressing the call button. “You’re okay. You’re okay.”

He wasn’t sure if that was true, but he nodded anyway.

The doctors came in. There was talking. Examinations. A flashlight in his eyes. Questions he could barely answer.

“You had a concussion,” one of them said. “A bad one. But there’s no sign of a skull fracture or internal bleeding. You’re lucky. Really lucky.”
Joyce didn't look lucky. She looked like she hadn’t slept in days.

When the doctors left, Hopper stood by the bed and said nothing for a long time. Then he reached out and ruffled Will’s hair. Gently, carefully.
“You scared the hell out of us, kid.”

Will didn’t meet his eyes. He felt stupid. Embarrassed. Like he’d broken something he couldn’t fix.

“I just wanted to see,” he said quietly, his voice hoarse.

Joyce took his hand again. “I know. But you have to tell us next time, okay? You don’t have to do everything on your own.”

Will didn’t answer.

Because deep down, he hadn’t wanted them to know. He wanted to feel brave. Normal. In control.

Instead, he was here.

Stuck in a hospital bed.

Making everyone worry all over again.

“I love you sweetie,” Joyce said, tears in her eyes.

And with that, he slipped back to unconsciousness.

Chapter Text

Will woke slowly, like surfacing from deep underwater.

He was floating at first, weightless, dreamless. Then came the dull pain at the back of his skull, thudding in rhythm with his heartbeat. He didn’t notice this the last time he woke up. He blinked against the ceiling lights overhead. They were too bright, sharp and artificial, washing everything in sterile white.

He turned his head slightly. The IV tugged against his arm. The heart monitor sat beside the bed, screen blinking steadily.

But something was wrong. Too wrong.

It took him a moment to realize what it was.

There was no sound.

No humming machines. No rustle of sheets. No hallway chatter outside the door. No subtle beeping of the monitor he was looking at—the one clearly blinking in time with his pulse.

Nothing.

It wasn’t quiet. It was silent.

He swallowed. He couldn’t even hear his own breaking. If he couldn’t hear it, was he even breathing at all? His ears felt full, like he’d just jumped into a pool. He rubbed them, pressed hard, then pulled his hands away.

Still nothing.

“Hello?” he said. Or tried to. His voice was nothing but a vibration in his throat. He was surprised that his mom, or at least Hopper, wasn’t in the room with him. His mom was always at his side.

Panic fluttered in his chest. He sat up fast, head spinning. His breath came quicker now. He could feel it in his lungs, but he couldn’t hear it.

He looked around the room. The wires were still attached. The machines were still blinking. Nothing looked broken.

But he was.

Will reached for the call button, jabbing it with trembling fingers.

The door swung open seconds later and a nurse stepped in. Young, blonde hair tied back. Her mouth moved quickly. Probably a greeting, something casual.

Will stared at her in horror.

“I can’t hear,” he said. His voice was cracking, shaky. He still couldn’t tell if he was shouting or whispering. He hated that.

“I—I can’t hear!” he said again, louder.

She froze. Her smile dropped. She stepped forward, mouth moving, too fast to read. She reached for his wrist, probably checking his pulse.

Will yanked his hand away. “No, no, no. Something’s wrong!”

He pointed to his ears, shaking his head violently. “I can’t hear anything! I woke up and it’s just. It’s gone!”

More people came into the room. Another nurse. A doctor. Their lips moved like a fast-forwarded movie scene. Someone touched his shoulder and he flinched hard, jerking away.

Then Joyce burst through the door.

“Mom!” he shouted. Or tried to.

She rushed to him, hands on either side of his face, brushing his hair back from his forehead. She was crying, he could see it in her eyes, the way her face crumpled with relief. Her mouth moved rapidly.

Will shook his head again, panicked. “I can’t hear you,” he mouthed. “I can’t hear—anything!”

Her hands fell still on his cheeks. She stared at him. Then mouthed, slowly: “You can’t hear?”

Will nodded, eyes wide and stinging with tears.

She wrapped her arms around him like she could hold his body together with pressure alone. He didn’t know if she was saying anything anymore. Maybe she was just crying.

Hopper appeared behind her. His face was pale. One glance at Will and his entire posture changed—he straightened like someone had punched him in the stomach. He said something to the doctor, fast and sharp.

The nurse was writing something on a notepad now. She turned it toward him. “We’re going to do more tests, okay? You’re safe. We’re here.”

Will stared at the words. He didn’t feel safe. He felt like he was trapped inside a glass box, watching everything happen from behind thick, soundproof walls.

- - - - - - - - - - -

He had lost most of his hearing. That’s what the doctors had said. They didn’t say it like it was the end of the world.

No dramatic pauses. No slow, tearful explanations.

Just facts.

A specialist came in. He was an older guy, white coat, clipboard. He had a printout ready. Sat next to Will's bed and passed it to Joyce, who read it like she was trying to decode a secret message.

Then he pulled out a marker and started writing on the whiteboard they'd brought in earlier.
“You’ve lost most of your hearing. Moderate to severe, both sides.”

Will read it. Then looked up.

The doctor kept going.
“It’s likely from nerve damage caused by the fall. Not completely gone. We should be able to restore some hearing with hearing aids.
“You’ll need testing, fittings, follow-ups. It’ll take time.”

Will blinked at the last sentence.

It’ll take time.

Of course it would.

Joyce asked a few questions. Quietly, slowly, carefully. Hopper stayed back by the door with his arms crossed, watching everything like it was a fight he didn’t know how to step into.

Will didn’t say anything. He didn’t even nod. He just stared at the board, his hands clenched in the blanket.

Hearing aids.

It wasn’t the worst news. It could’ve been worse. No tumor. No permanent brain injury. Just… this.

But something about the word “aids” hit him sideways. Like a reminder that from now on, his body wouldn’t do what it was supposed to, not without help.
The doctor added a few more notes about next steps. Audiology appointments. Recovery timelines. Maybe physical therapy. Then he nodded, collected the clipboard, and left the room like this was all normal.

Joyce sat down beside the bed. She didn’t try to talk, just touched his arm gently and waited.

Will didn’t meet her eyes.

He picked up the dry erase marker and wrote a single question on the board:
“Is this forever?”

Joyce looked at it, then at him. She shook her head. Then shrugged. A quiet, helpless gesture. She mouthed the words, slow enough for him to read.
“We don’t know yet.”

- - - - - - - - - - -

That night, he tried to watch TV with the subtitles on. It was weird, not bad, just… off. He kept thinking he could hear something if he focused hard enough. Sometimes, when someone slammed a door or dropped a tray, he felt the sound more than heard it. A low, physical pressure in his chest.
But actual words? Speech? Music?

Gone.

They brought in a woman from audiology the next morning. She was friendly but blunt, showed him a diagram of the inner ear and explained what was damaged, what wasn’t. She talked to him through written notes and a laptop screen.

Will answered everything with one or two words.

She didn’t sugarcoat it. Said it straight: he’d likely need binaural hearing aids, one in each ear. Said they’d “amplify what’s left.” That his brain would “adjust over time.” He’d probably never hear like he used to, but it wouldn’t be total silence either, not if the aids worked.

It was strange. Everyone around him seemed… hopeful. Like this was manageable. Like things could go back to normal with the right tech and appointments and adjustments. Will wasn’t sure he believed that.

Because normal felt far away now. Not just because of the silence, but because of how fast everything had shifted. One minute he was climbing a ladder, trying to feel normal again. The next, he was half-deaf, stuck in a hospital bed, surrounded by doctors and diagrams.

He didn’t feel broken.

But he didn’t feel like himself, either.

- - - - - - - - - - -

El visited that afternoon. She didn’t try to talk. He liked having El as a sister. Joyce and Hopper had just gotten married a few months before. Though the house was louder, she was always there for him. She was always a calm presence.

She handed him a small notepad and a pen.

He wrote:
“They said hearing aids might work.”

She nodded, a tiny smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

He added:
“It’s not permanent. Maybe.”

She hesitated, then wrote:
“That’s good, right?”

He didn’t answer that one. Just stared at the page, pen hovering. Eventually, he scribbled something else.
“I don’t want everyone treating me different.”

El read it, then met his eyes and nodded. A quiet agreement. Then she wrote:
“I won’t.”

- - - - - - - - - - -

Later, Jonathan came by with his sketchbook. He didn’t talk, just sat beside the bed watched Will draw. The calming presence of his brother making him feel better. Even though Will knew it was going to be a tough road ahead of him, he knew that he had his family on his side.

Chapter Text

Will saw them coming through the hallway window. Dustin’s bouncing walk, Mike’s long stride, Lucas trying to keep up, Max trailing behind them with her arms crossed.

They looked the same.

But when the door opened and they walked in, everything felt… different.

Dustin came in first, holding a plastic grocery bag full of snacks. He smiled big, like nothing had changed.

“Hey!” he said. His voice was too loud. His mouth exaggerated every word.

Will didn’t answer right away. Just looked at him, then pointed to his ears and raised his eyebrows. He had gotten pretty good at lip reading over the last two days. However, sometimes he struggled.

Dustin paused, embarrassed. “Right,” he muttered. Then started talking slower, but still like he was narrating a cartoon.
Will rolled his eyes.

Max stepped inside next. “Hey,” she said, quieter. She looked around like she wasn’t sure she wanted to be there.

Lucas followed. He gave Will a small nod and a wave, then stood near the foot of the bed like he wasn’t sure where to sit. Mike was last, closing the door behind him. He didn’t say anything, just stared at Will like he expected him to look worse.

Will gave them a half-hearted wave, then grabbed the dry erase board from the bedside table and wrote:
“Hi. I’m not dead.”

Dustin laughed a little. “Yeah, okay. You still got jokes.”

Will forced a small smile.

The rest of them sat down. Dustin by the edge of the bed, Lucas in the windowsill, Mike in the chair beside the bed, and Max leaned against the wall.
Nobody really looked at each other.

Dustin was the first to speak again. “So, uh, we brought stuff. Snacks. D&D stuff. Max brought gum but we told her that’s a trash gift.”

Max shrugged. “Didn’t really plan on coming,” she said. “So.”

Will blinked at her. He didn’t respond.

Dustin pulled out some candy and passed it over to Will, then looked back at the others. “So… how bad is it? Like, what’s the actual deal?”

Will picked up the marker.
“Most hearing gone. Hearing aids might help. Not sure how much.”

Lucas frowned. “They said it’s not permanent?”

Will hesitated.
“They don’t know yet.”

The room got quiet. Or—visibly quiet, anyway. To Will, it was all the same hum of nothing.

Dustin nodded slowly. “Okay. That sucks.”

“Yeah,” Mike said suddenly, his voice cutting through whatever moment they were trying to have. “It really sucks.”

Will looked at him.

Mike was tense, sitting stiff in the chair like he was ready to bolt. “You shouldn’t have even been on the ladder.”

Lucas looked over. “What?”

“He shouldn’t have gone up there,” Mike said again, sharper. “You knew you weren’t supposed to. Hopper said it was off-limits.”

Will narrowed his eyes.
“I was bored. Curious. It was stupid. I know.”

“That’s not the point,” Mike said. “You’re always doing that. Running off. Getting into stuff. Then we all have to—”

“What?” Max cut in. “Clean up after him? That what you were gonna say?”

Mike shut his mouth.

Max folded her arms. “That’s messed up, dude.”

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“You kinda did,” Dustin said. “You’re blaming him for getting hurt.”

“I’m not!” Mike snapped. “I’m just saying this didn’t have to happen.”

Lucas sat up straighter. “Yeah, well, it did. So maybe stop making him feel worse about it?”

“I’m not trying to make him feel worse!” Mike barked. “I don’t even know how to talk to him right now!”

That made the room freeze.

Will looked away.

Max’s voice was flat. “Wow.”

Mike looked like he regretted it instantly, but the words were already out there.

Will grabbed the marker again.
“Then don’t talk.”

He didn’t look at Mike. Didn’t want to see the guilt or whatever emotion he’d come in with.

Lucas stood up, frustrated now. “We’re here to visit, not to act like this is a funeral.”

“No one’s acting like it’s a funeral,” Mike said.

“You are!” Lucas pointed. “You’re acting like he’s never gonna be the same, like we all have to walk on eggshells around him.”

“Well maybe we do!” Mike shouted.

Silence again.

Will’s hand tightened around the marker.

“You’re making this worse.”

No one said anything for a few seconds.

Dustin rubbed the back of his neck. “Maybe this wasn’t a good idea.”

Max pushed off the wall. “Yeah, no kidding.”

Lucas looked at Will. “Sorry, man. This wasn’t what we meant to do.”

Will just nodded, tired now. More tired than he had been all week.

They all stood up slowly, one by one, gathering bags and backpacks, avoiding eye contact.

Dustin was the only one who tried to smile. “We’ll, uh… come back later. When it’s less awkward.”

Will didn’t answer.

Max lingered for a second by the door, then followed the others out. Mike hesitated, looked like he wanted to say something, then turned and left without a word.

The door closed.

And just like that, Will was alone again. He laid back against the pillow, staring up at the ceiling. Even in total silence, it had never felt louder.

Chapter Text

The room was too still. Too dark.

The nurses had turned off most of the lights, leaving only the glow from the hallway spilling in through the crack beneath the door. The machines beside Will’s bed blinked quietly, numbers sliding up and down, but he couldn’t hear their hum. Couldn’t hear anything.

Joyce was in the chair again, curled up with her sweater pulled tight around her shoulders. She hadn’t fallen asleep this time. Her eyes were red, raw, like she’d been crying when he wasn’t looking. She sat there, watching him, like she was afraid he’d disappear if she blinked too long.

Will had been pretending to sleep, but the silence pressed down on him until he couldn’t stand it anymore. He opened his eyes, staring at the ceiling.
He snapped his fingers near his ear. Nothing. He tapped the metal bedrail. Nothing. He even tried humming under his breath, hoping he’d feel something more than the vibration in his throat.

Nothing.

The pressure built in his chest, a tight, hot coil that wouldn’t let go. He ripped the blanket off himself and sat up fast, his head swimming. The heart monitor wires tugged at his skin. The IV line pulled. He yanked at them, ripping them loose.

“Will!” Joyce was on her feet in an instant, rushing to his side.

He grabbed the whiteboard from the bedside table, his hands shaking so badly the marker squeaked across the surface. He scrawled big, messy letters:
“I CAN’T DO THIS.”

Joyce froze, eyes wide.

He wiped the board hard with his sleeve and wrote again, faster this time.
“I DON’T WANT TO BE BROKEN. I JUST WANNA GO HOME”

Tears blurred his vision, spilling hot down his cheeks. His hand trembled so much the words were jagged, uneven. He pressed harder, almost carving the marker into the board.
“YOU’RE ALL SCARED OF ME AGAIN.”

He dropped the marker, choking on air he couldn’t hear himself breathe. The silence was unbearable, crushing. His hands flew to his ears, pressing hard against them, as if he could force sound back in. When that didn’t work, he slammed the heels of his palms against the sides of his head. Once. Twice.

Joyce caught his wrists before he could do it again. “Stop,” she mouthed, over and over, shaking her head. “Stop, baby, stop.”

He struggled against her grip, but she held tight. She leaned close, tears running down her face, mouthing the words slowly so he could see them:
You are not broken.

Will’s sobs came harder, his whole body shaking. He hated it. He hated crying, hated being watched, hated how helpless he felt. But he couldn’t stop.

Joyce pulled him against her chest, wrapping both arms around him, holding on like she could keep him from shattering apart. “I don’t care,” she whispered, her lips moving slow and clear against his hairline. “I don’t care if you can’t hear. I don’t care if it never goes back. You’re here. You’re alive. That’s all I want.”

Her voice didn’t reach him, but her words did. He could read them, plain as day, and the truth of them broke something loose inside him.

He jerked back just enough to grab the marker again, scrawling through tears:
“WHAT IF I NEVER GET BETTER?”

Joyce looked at the words, then at him. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t hesitate. She just shook her head, stroked the hair back from his forehead, and mouthed slowly, so he couldn’t miss it: Then I’ll still love you. Exactly the same. Always.

Will’s throat closed up. His chest ached like it might split open. He let the board fall and collapsed into her arms, sobbing so hard his whole body hurt.
Joyce held him, rocking gently, whispering things he couldn’t hear but didn’t need to. She stayed like that until his sobs grew weaker, until his body finally gave in to exhaustion.

He drifted into sleep against her shoulder, tears still damp on his cheeks.

Joyce kept holding him, even when his breathing evened out. She kissed the top of his head and stayed awake, eyes fixed on the darkness outside the window.

She didn’t notice Hopper standing in the doorway, watching silently, his broad shoulders heavy with something like guilt.

He didn’t come in. Didn’t say a word.

He just stayed there, until he was sure Joyce wouldn’t let go.

Chapter Text

Will sat cross-legged on his bed, sketchbook balanced against his knees, Tiger tucked under one arm. His pencil moved slowly, dragging across the page in hesitant lines.

It was his first full day home. After three nights in the hospital, being back in his own room felt like breathing again. He’d missed the posters on his walls, the messy pile of Jonathan’s clothes in the corner, the faint smell of paint that never seemed to leave no matter how many times Joyce aired the place out.

And most of all, he’d missed Tiger.

Tiger’s fur was worn, one button eye scratched, stuffing sagging a little from years of being hugged tight. Will had had him since he was small, and though he knew he was too old for a stuffed animal, he still couldn’t sleep without him. At the hospital, he’d been too embarrassed to ask anyone to bring him. He’d missed Tiger so badly it hurt. Now, tucked under his arm again, Tiger made the silence feel less lonely.

Except it wasn’t silent anymore.

The hearing aids were small, almost invisible behind his ears. But to Will, they felt huge. Like foreign objects stuck to his head. Every sound they picked up was sharper, too sharp. The hum of the refrigerator down the hall, the faint creak of the floorboards as Joyce moved around, even his own pencil scratching against paper. All of it was magnified, tinny and strange.

It wasn’t like before. It wasn’t like real hearing.

The door opened with a faint squeak, and Will winced. He still wasn’t used to how loud everything seemed.

“Hey, sweetie,” Joyce said softly as she stepped in. She sat down beside him on the bed, smoothing her hand across the blanket.

Will glanced up from his drawing. “Hey.”

Joyce’s eyes flicked to the hearing aids, then back to his face.

“You doing okay with them?” she asked carefully.

He shrugged, hugging Tiger a little closer. “They’re… weird.”

“Weird how?”

“It’s like… too much, sometimes. Everything’s loud, but not the way I remember it. Like…” He searched for the right words. “Like the world’s out of tune.”

Joyce’s smile was sad but proud. “That’s normal. Your brain just has to get used to it.”

“Yeah,” Will muttered. “Guess so.”

They sat in silence for a few seconds. Will kept sketching, lines crossing into shapes that didn’t quite add up.

“You okay?” Joyce asked suddenly.

“Yeah. Why?”

“You’re blinking a lot,” she said gently. “Is something in your eye?”

Will blinked again, startled. He hadn’t noticed. He rubbed at his face quickly. “I don’t know. I didn’t even realize I was doing it.”
Joyce leaned a little closer, worried now. “Does it hurt? Is it bothering you? Maybe it’s from the concussion-“

“I said I’m fine,” Will cut in, sharper than he meant. The pencil dropped from his fingers, bouncing against the bedspread. “I don’t even notice it, Mom. You don’t have to…” He stopped, biting the inside of his cheek.

Joyce’s hand hovered over his arm, uncertain. “Okay,” she said softly. “I just… I’m watching, that’s all. I don’t want to miss something important.”

Will let out a slow breath and slumped back against the headboard. He hated it — the constant checking, the way every tiny thing about him was under a microscope. Like he was fragile glass about to crack.

Joyce followed his gaze to Tiger and gave the stuffed ear a gentle squeeze. “I’m glad he’s back with you,” she said.

Will managed a small smile. “Me too.”

- - - - - - - - - -

The next morning, the kitchen was full of smells and noise. Coffee brewing, bacon hissing in the pan, the scrape of Jonathan’s chair against the floor. To Will, with the hearing aids in, it all came through too sharp, too crowded. He sat at the table, sketchbook balanced on his lap, fork in his right hand as he picked halfheartedly at his eggs. Tiger was upstairs under his blanket, safe where no one would see.

Across from him, Hopper dropped into a chair with a grunt, a plate of bacon in hand. He reached for his coffee and took a sip, eyes drifting to Will.

At first, Will didn’t notice. He was too busy tracing shapes on his plate with his fork, zoning out, trying not to wince every time someone’s silverware scraped. But then Hopper spoke. “Your hand always do that?”

Will blinked, startled. He looked down. His left hand, the one not holding the fork, was tapping against the table, twitching in a restless rhythm. Back and forth. Back and forth. He hadn’t even realized.

“I-” He clenched his fist quickly, shoving it into his lap. “It’s nothing.”

Hopper’s brows knit together. “Doesn’t look like nothing.”

Joyce turned from the counter, worry flashing across her face. “Will? When did that start?”

Will felt heat crawl up his neck. “I don’t know. I didn’t notice, okay?”

“Could be from the head injury,” Hopper muttered, half to Joyce, half to himself. “Or-“

“Stop,” Will said sharply, louder than he meant. His fork clattered against the plate. “It’s fine. I’m fine. Just, can we not?”

The room went quiet. Jonathan glanced between them, his mouth half open like he wanted to say something but thought better of it.

Joyce set the butter knife down slowly. “Honey, we’re not trying to upset you. We just need to know what’s going on with your body. That’s all.”

Will hunched his shoulders, stabbing at his eggs like they’d done something wrong. He wanted to disappear, to be anywhere else but at this table
with all their eyes on him.

Hopper leaned back, sighing into his mug. His voice was gruff, but quieter this time. “Alright. We’ll drop it. For now.”

Will didn’t answer. He just kept eating, forcing down bites that tasted like dust. The silence stretched on, heavier than the sound of clinking silverware.