Chapter 10: TRAINING DAYS
Max sat on a crumbling concrete block at the edge of the loading dock, skateboard propped beside her, watching me like I was a television show she hadn't decided yet whether to like.
Nine days since Neil's breakdown. Nine days since the fire had climbed my arms and the balance of power in the Hargrove household had shifted permanently. In that time, my projection range had extended from one meter to two, my control had sharpened from desperate to merely inconsistent, and my stepsister had started appearing at my training sessions without invitation or explanation.
I didn't mind. Having an audience helped, somehow. Gave me something to prove.
"Again," she said.
I extended my arm, palm forward, and let the fire flow. Orange flame streamed outward in a tight jet, reaching across the empty space toward a target I'd spray-painted on the far wall—a rough circle about the size of a dinner plate. The fire hit just left of center, scorching the concrete before I cut the connection.
"Still pulling left," Max observed.
"I know."
"And you flail. When you throw. Like you're pitching baseball wrong."
I lowered my arm, considered that. She was right—there was a jerky motion in my release, a hitch in my form that was throwing off my accuracy. Old habits from a body that had never learned to throw properly, maybe. Or just the awkwardness of trying to aim something that didn't have weight or substance.
"Show me what you mean."
Max hopped off the concrete block, grabbed an imaginary ball. Her pitching motion was smooth, practiced—follow-through extending naturally from her shoulder through her fingertips. "Like this. You're doing—" She demonstrated my motion, all elbow and wrist, choppy and disconnected. "See the difference?"
I did. The fire wasn't a baseball, but the principle was the same. Power came from the whole body, not just the arm. Extension, not throwing.
I tried again. Focused on keeping my shoulder in the motion, letting my whole arm extend rather than just snapping my wrist. The flame that left my palm was tighter, straighter. It hit the target dead center.
"Better," Max said, with the tone of someone determined not to be too impressed.
"Thanks, coach."
She rolled her eyes and returned to her concrete block. The skateboard came up into her lap, fingers tracing the worn grip tape. "How long can you keep doing that? Before you need to eat a cow or whatever?"
Good question. I'd been tracking my endurance carefully over the past week, timing how long I could project before the hunger started clawing at my stomach.
"About twenty minutes of active projection," I said. "Longer if I take breaks. Less if I push for distance or heat."
"What happens if you push too far?"
"I collapse." The memory of that first day at the warehouse was still vivid—the concrete rushing up, the desperate hunger, the shaking hands. "The fire runs on calories. Run out of fuel, the engine stops."
Max processed that. "So if you got in a fight and used too much power..."
"I'd be helpless. Yeah." No point sugarcoating it. "That's why I train. Build endurance. Learn efficiency. Figure out how to do more with less."
She nodded slowly. The questions had become more tactical lately, more focused on practical applications. Less "what are you" and more "what can you do with it." I appreciated the shift.
I spent another fifteen minutes on projection work, varying the distance, the angle, the intensity. Max offered occasional observations—"you squint before you fire," "your left foot shifts"—and each one helped. She had a good eye for movement, probably from years of skateboarding. Understanding how bodies worked, where balance came from, what made the difference between smooth and awkward.
By the time my stomach started protesting, I'd achieved consistent two-meter projection with decent accuracy. Not good enough for combat, but getting there.
"Shape work," I announced, sitting down on the loading dock beside her. "I want to try something."
"Shape work?"
"Making the fire do more than just... shoot. Giving it form."
Max looked skeptical. "Like what, fire sculptures?"
"More like weapons. A blade. A whip. Something with an edge instead of just heat."
I held up my palm and ignited a small flame. Instead of projecting it, I tried to compress it, narrow it, give it structure. The fire flickered, resisted, then collapsed back into a shapeless blob.
"Looks like a sad hot dog," Max observed.
I actually laughed. The sound surprised me—genuine amusement, the kind I hadn't felt much since dying and waking up in someone else's life. "Thanks for the support."
"I'm just saying. That's not a weapon. That's a unfortunate snack."
Second attempt. I focused harder on the image I wanted—a narrow stream, tight and focused, like a laser pointer made of fire. The flame stretched, elongated, held for three seconds before dissolving.
"Better," Max admitted. "Still not scary, though."
"Give me time."
Third attempt produced something that actually looked intentional. A thin stream of fire, maybe six inches long, stable enough to hold for almost ten seconds. Not a blade—more like a very hot stick. But progress.
My stomach growled loud enough for Max to hear. She snorted. "Dinner time?"
"Apparently."
We walked back to the Camaro as the afternoon faded toward evening. The sky was doing that California thing where the smog turned the sunset into something accidentally beautiful, orange and pink bleeding together across the horizon.
Max called shotgun automatically now—a small sign of how things had shifted. Two weeks ago, she'd have never gotten in a car with Billy Hargrove voluntarily. Now she slid into the passenger seat and reached for the radio before I'd even started the engine.
"My turn to pick," she said.
"Your turn? We didn't establish turns."
"We did. Just now. My turn."
She spun the dial past static and commercials until she found something that made her pause. Twisted Sister, "We're Not Gonna Take It." She glanced at me sideways, watching for a reaction.
I let a small smile show. "Lucky guess."
"Mom says you play that one a lot." She settled back in her seat. "It's not terrible."
High praise from Max Mayfield. I pulled out of the lot and pointed us toward home.
The drive was quiet for a while. Comfortable quiet, the kind that didn't need filling. I focused on the road; Max watched the passing buildings and let the music fill the space between us.
"We're moving soon," she said eventually.
I kept my eyes on the traffic. "Yeah?"
"Mom let it slip this morning. Indiana. Some town called..." She frowned. "Actually, I don't think she said."
"Hawkins," I said.
Max turned to look at me. "How'd you know that?"
Because I watched the show. Because I know what's waiting there. Because the next eighteen months of our lives are going to be a horror movie and I'm the only one who's read the script.
"Overheard Neil on the phone," I said instead. "Couple weeks back."
She studied me for a moment, that sharp intelligence working behind her eyes. I could almost see her filing the information away, noting that my answer had come too quickly, too easily. Suspicion, but not enough to push on.
"Indiana," she repeated. "What's even there?"
Corn. Woods. A secret government lab. A gateway to another dimension. A monster made of shadows and cold that would try to possess Will Byers and eventually target me.
"Guess we'll find out."
Max made a face. "Ugh. I looked it up on a map. It's in the middle of nowhere. No beaches. No skate parks. Probably no decent record stores."
"You'll survive."
"Easy for you to say. You can make fire. I'm just stuck being a normal person moving to the most boring state in America."
I pulled into the driveway and killed the engine. The house loomed ahead, same as always, but different now. The fear had been drained out of it over the past week, replaced with something quieter. Susan moved through the rooms like she was slowly remembering how to breathe. Neil stayed in his office or his bedroom, avoiding shared spaces, avoiding me.
"Indiana might surprise you," I said. "New place, new people. Fresh start."
Max grabbed her skateboard from the backseat. "You almost sound like you're looking forward to it."
I was. That was the strange part. Despite knowing what was coming—the tunnels, the Mind Flayer, the death that had been written for Billy Hargrove—I was looking forward to Hawkins. Because that's where it would all matter. That's where the fire would finally have a purpose beyond intimidating one broken man.
"Maybe I am," I admitted.
Max shook her head and headed for the front door. "You're weird."
"Noted."
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