Chapter Text
HOPPER WASN’T SUPPOSED TO BE ASLEEP – at least technically. But night shift in Hawkins wasn’t exactly a high-octane assignment, and the patrol car’s heater had been blowing warm air straight at his face for over an hour. He’d leaned back, cap tilted over his eyes, boots crossed, telling himself he was “resting them.” The radio crackled just as he slipped into the kind of half-dream where he still lived in a world where Sara was alive.
“Unit Three, come in. Hopper, you awake?”
He jerked upright so fast his hat fell off.
“Yeah, yeah– Hopper here. What is it?”
“Caller reported someone near the edge of Sattler Quarry. Says they think the person’s drunk and might be about to jump. You’re the closest unit.”
Hopper scrubbed a hand across his face.
“Copy. I’m on my way.”
He didn’t use lights or sirens. No need to wake half the county for some idiot teenager who’d had too much Jack Daniels and decided brooding over the quarry made them interesting. Still—better safe than sorry. He’d scraped enough bodies off roadsides in his younger years to know how fast stupid decisions turned into funerals.
The gravel popped under his tires as he pulled up. Night at Sattler Quarry was pitch black except for the thin scrape of moonlight on the jagged water below. The place always felt wrong to him. Too quiet. Too still.
He took out his flashlight and started along the ridge. That’s when he saw the glow. A small dot of ember-orange hovering by the bushes.
“Hey!” Hopper called. “Quarry’s closed. You got a death wish or are you just stupid?”
The orange dot froze, then a shape unfolded from the shadows – a lanky teen with wild hair and a denim vest covered in patches. He held up his hands like he was being mugged.
“Just smoking, man.”
“Eddie Munson.” Hopper sighed. Of course. “You’re not why I’m here. Someone called in a jumper.”
Eddie jabbed his thumb toward the drop.
“Yeah. That was me.”
Hopper blinked.
“You?”
Eddie cringed as if expecting an accusation.
“Look, I wasn’t trying to be a snitch, okay? But there was this girl. She was right near the edge. Looked…off. Like she was gonna swan dive. Figured calling you was better than being here when it happened.”
Hopper shone the light at him.
“You high right now?”
Eddie hesitated – too long. Hopper stepped closer.
“Get out of here, Munson. Before I decide to search you and bust you for possession.”
Eddie scrambled backward, nearly tripping over a rock.
“Yeah, yeah, going! Good luck with the jumper!”
Hopper muttered something that would’ve gotten him chewed out by the mayor and kept moving. The wind off the quarry bit through his jacket as he neared the ledge. He swept the flashlight along the ridge. Nothing.
For a second, he wondered if Eddie had been hallucinating – and then he saw her.
A girl standing dangerously close to the drop, her silhouette sharp against the moonlit void. Long ponytail hanging limp. Track jacket clinging to her in tatters. Hopper’s breath hitched. He knew that posture. The frozen stillness of someone who’d stopped arguing with themselves about whether to jump.
“Hey.” Hopper said, voice calm, steady. “You alright?”
The girl didn’t turn. He stepped closer.
“Miranda Jenkins?”
That made her flinch. Yeah. He recognized her. Everyone knew the Jenkins girl. Straight-A student. Cheerleader. Babysitter to probably half the kids on Maple Street. The type of teen the high school plastered on brochures – clean-cut, bright-eyed, bound for college and a future outside Hawkins.
So what the hell was she doing standing at the edge of Sattler Quarry at one in the morning?
“Miranda.” He repeated. “You thinking of jumping?”
Her voice was small, hoarse.
“Yes.”
Hopper’s gut clenched.
“Okay. Why don’t you turn around and talk to me? You’ve got no business being out here. You’re a good kid. Smart kid. Got a whole life ahead of you. You babysit every kid in a five-mile radius, for Christ’s sake. Volleyball team captain, right? Top of your class. You’re–”
She snorted. It wasn’t a pretty sound. It was harsh, almost broken. Slowly, she turned. The beam of Hopper’s flashlight slid over her – and he felt his stomach drop.
Her hair, usually tied neat and glossy, was matted and tangled like she’d run through a forest. One side of her face was smeared with drying blood. Her lower lip was cracked and swollen. Dirt stained her cheek. Her jacket was slashed, her jeans ripped at the knee, and she leaned heavily on one leg like it hurt to put weight on it.
She looked like she’d gone a round with a bear and lost.
“Jesus Christ.” Hopper breathed. “Miranda– what happened to you?”
She stared at him, eyes hollow. Too old for her sixteen years. Too empty. He reached out, instinctive, almost fatherly.
“Hey, you’re hurt. Come on, let me–”
“Don’t touch me.”
Her voice cracked like ice underfoot. She jerked away so fast she almost slipped, toes skidding on loose gravel. Hopper grabbed her arm on reflex – not tight, just enough to steady her. She hissed in pain. He released her immediately.
“Okay.” Hopper said quietly. “Okay. No touching. But you need help. You’re bleeding. You’re shaking. Who did this to you?”
For the first time, she looked away from him. She looked down. Into the black, silent water of the quarry. When she spoke, her voice was barely a whisper.
“Does it matter?”
A chill slid down Hopper’s spine – not from the cold, but from the look in her eyes. Something had happened to Miranda Jenkins. Something bad. Something no straight-A, cheerleading, all-American girl was supposed to survive. And judging from the way she stared into the abyss, Hopper knew this wasn’t some teenage melodrama. This wasn’t heartbreak or a bad grade or a fight with a friend.
This was fear. Pure, bone-deep fear.
“Yeah.” Hopper said softly. “It matters.”
Miranda didn’t answer. The wind howled through the quarry like the world was holding its breath. And the night around them felt wrong – like something unseen was watching from the dark.