Chapter Text
PART ONE:
Late Summer, 1988.
“Next stop, The Beacon, then?”
Sean’s voice cut through the low hum of cicadas chirping in the late summer afternoon as he hefted one of Nancy’s carboard boxes into the trunk of her car. The box sagged slightly at the bottom—folders, notebooks, clippings she’d insisted on keeping even when she knew she wouldn’t need them anymore. She was moving away, starting a new life, she didn’t need things from the past anymore. Hawkins was small, but it has given her a lot. Proof that she could do this. That she was good at it.
“Next stop,” Nancy echoes back at Sean, nodding as she adjusted the second box beside it, “The Beacon.”
A smile, the kind that sat easily because she’d practiced it enough, across her face. It didn’t feel fake, or forced. Just… careful. Like something fragile she didn’t want to jostle too much before it has a chance to settle.
Sean closed the trunk with a solid thud and leaned against the bumper, folding his arms. He’d been a good editor—better than she’d expected when she’d walked back into the Hawkins Post after Tom Holloway, armed with a clean notebook and something to prove. He’d given her room to chase stories the way she saw fit, trusted her instincts even when they made the town uncomfortable. Especially then.
After all, what kind of chief editor comes to see off an intern on her last day at the office?
She owed him more than she could neatly say.
“Well,” he said, glancing at the building behind them, the brick façade already looking more distant than it had an hour ago, “I wish you all the very best, Wheeler. Make me proud.”
Nancy laughed softly. “I’ll try.”
“No,” he corrected, stepping forward and patting her shoulder with a familiarity she’d earned. “I know you will.”
She swallowed, then nodded. “Thank you. Really.”
He waved her off with an easy grin. “Go. Boston’s waiting.”
She slid into the driver’s seat, the vinyl warm beneath her legs, and shut the door. For a moment, she just sat there, hands resting on the steering wheel, looking out at the Post one last time. Two years. Two years of late nights and coffee gone cold, of chasing leads through streets she’d memorized before she was old enough to drive. Two years of learning how to ask the right questions—and when not to.
The engine started on the first try.
Summer was almost over.
In a week, she’d be in Boston. Orientation. Dorm keys. New schedules, new expectations. A city big enough to swallow her whole if she wasn’t careful—and she intended to be careful. She’d learned that much. She’d learned what happened when you let things pull you off course. When you hesitated too long. When you convinced yourself, there’d be more time.
Not this time.
Nancy backed out of the lot, the tires crunching softly against gravel, and headed down Main Street. Hawkins blurred past in familiar fragments: the grocery store, the diner, the movie theatre board advertising something she’d already seen twice. She told herself she was ready. She told herself she’d tied up all the loose ends.
A clear conscience. That was the goal.
She reached for the radio dial as the static filled the car, twisting it absently as she turned onto the road that would take her home.
“…and that was—well, that was definitely not the original version,” a voice said, bright with amusement, threaded through with something unmistakably familiar. “Though I maintain Weird Al’s parody might actually be superior. Don’t quote me on that. Or do. I’m not your boss.”
Nancy’s hand stilled.
She smiled before she realized she was going to.
The signal crackled, then steadied. Music hummed softly underneath the voice now—something nostalgic, something that tugged at memory more than melody. Nancy leaned back into the seat, one hand still on the wheel, the other resting uselessly in her lap as she listened.
“Anyway,” the voice continued, warmth bleeding through the speakers, “you’re tuned in to W—” The call letters were swallowed briefly by static, then returned. “—and that was your unofficial, completely unsolicited music history lesson for the afternoon.”
Robin.
Nancy didn’t say the name out loud, but it settled in her chest all the same. She hadn’t known Robin’s schedule this week—hadn’t asked. It hadn’t felt like something she was allowed to plan around. Still, hearing her now, threaded into the afternoon like this, felt… intentional. Like the universe nudging her elbow and pretending it wasn’t.
She turned the volume up a notch.
Robin rambled on, easy and unguarded, her voice carrying the same quick wit and warmth that always made Nancy feel like she was being let in on a private joke. She talked about nothing and everything—about music, about the weather, about a caller who’d insisted on requesting something deeply questionable.
Nancy laughed quietly, eyes on the road.
She hadn’t realized how much she’d missed this. Not just Robin—but this version of her. The one who filled space so effortlessly. The one who made everything feel lighter just by talking.
The song shifted, lyrics drifting through the car.
Didn’t know how lost I was until I found you…
Nancy exhaled, something in her chest tightening in a way she didn’t quite have words for. She told herself it was just sentiment. End-of-summer nostalgia. Big changes looming. Anyone would feel like this.
She drove on, Hawkins stretching out behind her, the radio humming softly as Robin’s voice faded beneath the music.
In a week, everything would be different.
Nancy kept her eyes on the road and didn’t reach to change the station.
Nancy didn’t turn the radio off when she reached home.
She parked in the driveway, killed the engine, and stayed where she was, hands still on the steering wheel, the song tapering off into a gentle instrumental fade. The cicadas were louder here, a constant buzzing in the humid air, but Robin’s voice cut through them easily when it returned, sliding back into place like it belonged there.
“And that,” Robin said, mock solemn, “was your reminder that heartbreak sounds better with a guitar solo.”
Nancy smiled despite herself.
She should go inside. Her mother would ask questions—about the Post, about Boston, about whether she’d finished packing. All reasonable things. All things Nancy could answer. Still, she stayed in the car, window cracked just enough to let the warm air in, radio dialled carefully to avoid losing the signal.
Robin shifted tone slightly, settling into that rhythm she got when she wasn’t performing so much as being. The jokes softened. The cadence slowed. Nancy knew it well enough now to recognize the difference. She wondered, briefly, who else could hear it. Who else would catch the way Robin’s voice dipped when she talked about music she loved, or how she filled silences with half-thoughts like she was afraid of leaving too much room.
“I don’t know,” Robin said, sounding thoughtful now. “Something about late August just makes everything feel… louder. Like you’re supposed to be paying attention.”
Nancy’s grip tightened on the wheel.
She glanced up at the house, lights on in the living room. Still no reason she couldn’t stay a little longer. The radio crackled, static flaring briefly as she adjusted the volume, coaxing the signal back into clarity.
“You ever feel that?” Robin continued, unfazed by the interference. “Like you’re right on the edge of something, and you don’t know if it’s exciting or just… terrifying?”
Nancy swallowed.
She told herself it was coincidence. That Robin was talking to everyone, not her. That this was just a radio show, not a conversation. Still, the words landed uncomfortably close to home, pressing against something Nancy had been carefully not naming all week.
Robin laughed softly, breaking the tension, she’d created without seeming to notice. “Anyway. That got deep fast. Let’s fix that.”
Another song queued up—something upbeat, nostalgic. Nancy let it play, fingers drumming lightly against the steering wheel in time with the beat. She felt suspended, caught between going forward and staying exactly where she was.
She’d always been good at movement. At momentum. At doing the next right thing. Sitting still like this felt indulgent. Dangerous, maybe.
But she stayed.
The song ended. Robin came back on, voice bright again, like she’d shaken off the introspection with a shrug. She read off a few community announcements, stumbled adorably over a last name, corrected herself with exaggerated seriousness. Nancy laughed quietly, the sound swallowed by the car.
She leaned her head back against the seat and closed her eyes.
It would be so easy to imagine Robin in the station right now—feet kicked up on the desk, headphones slightly crooked, fingers tapping restlessly against the tabletop. Nancy had been there enough times to picture it without effort. The cramped room. The faint smell of dust and coffee. Robin in her element, animated and alive in a way that always made Nancy feel like she was standing too close to something electric.
The thought made Nancy's chest ache.
She opened her eyes and glanced at the clock on the dashboard. Five minutes. Ten. She didn’t keep track. Time felt oddly slippery, stretching and folding in on itself as Robin talked about nothing at all.
At one point, the signal wavered again, static bleeding into the edges of Robin’s voice. Nancy frowned and reached for the dial, turning it just slightly, holding her breath as the sound sharpened.
“There we go,” she murmured, as if Robin could hear her.
The absurdity of it struck her then—this quiet ritual, sitting alone in her car just to listen. Nancy shook her head, lips pressing together in a wry smile. She was leaving in a week. She had things to do. Loose ends to tie up.
Still.
Robin’s voice softened again near the end of the hour, easing listeners toward whatever came next in their evenings. She signed off with a warmth that lingered even after the words ended.
“Take care of yourselves out there,” Robin said. “And—uh—yeah. Don’t be afraid to… pay attention.”
The station cut to music. Not Robin this time.
Nancy opened her eyes fully, the moment breaking around her. She exhaled slowly, fingers relaxing their grip on the steering wheel. For a second, she considered turning the engine back on—driving somewhere, anywhere, just to stay in motion. The impulse passed.
She shut the radio off.
The sudden silence felt too big, too empty. Nancy sat with it for a moment, then reached for the door handle and stepped out into the evening air. The cicadas rushed back in, louder now, insistent.
Inside, her mother called her name. Nancy answered automatically, voice steady, normal. She went through the motions—greetings, small talk, reassurances. Upstairs, she unpacked one of the boxes from the Post, stacking notebooks neatly on her desk.
At the bottom of the box, her fingers brushed against a folded scrap of paper. She hesitated, then pulled it free.
A radio schedule. Scribbled call times. Robin’s handwriting in the margins, looping and careless.
Nancy stared at it for a long moment, then folded it back up and set it carefully in the top drawer of her desk.
Later that night, lying in bed with the window open and the sounds of Hawkins drifting in, Nancy stared at the ceiling and replayed Robin’s voice in her head. The pauses. The laughter. The things she hadn’t quite said.
She wondered how long she’d sat in the driveway.
She wondered why it had felt impossible to leave.
She wondered what had… changed?