"Hey, Munson's cool," Steve says quickly. He knows exactly what she must think he's thinking, because everyone in Hawkins thought those kinds of things about Eddie. Up until very recently he thought those kinds of things about him. "Seriously. I think it's great you were hanging out with him."

Does that sound sincere? He hopes it does.

"It's just..." He pulls attention from the candy bowls and looks at Chrissy, who's currently looking at some costume cat ears. For some reason this particular sight, this incredibly mundane scene, sends a stab of grief through his chest — it just really sucks, you know? She was just a normal girl with a bright future before that creep cursed her or whatever.

Jesus, this is hard. He doesn't actually know where to go from here, how to say what he needs to say. He slings the stupid t-shirt over his shoulder and plants one hand on his hip, scrubbing the other over his face with a sigh.

"Look, this is going to sound weird," he says, "But I know about the— the clocks and shit, okay? You know Max Mayfield? The same thing started happening to her. Fred Benson and Patrick McKinney, too."

Is he going too far? Is he not saying enough? Not for the first time, he finds himself wishing Nance were here. She'd be a hell of a lot better at this than he is.