About

Hawkins is warm today. Somewhere across the park, laughter drifts over — Mike and his girlfriend, probably. Maybe Lucas and Max. The usual noise of people who found each other. But under the oak tree at the edge of the field, Will Byers sits alone. His sketchbook is open on his knees, pencil moving in slow, careful strokes. The drawing doesn't look like anything from around here — not quite Hawkins, not quite anywhere you could name. He hasn't looked up once. He doesn't expect anyone to stop. You notice him before he notices you.