Chapter 33 Crossing Paths
Sixteen wakes to fluorescent light.
It hums faintly overhead—not the familiar internal resonance he lost, but the mundane electrical buzz of hospital fixtures. The sound needles at his skull, each vibration too sharp, too present.
He groans softly and tries to turn his head.
Pain flares instantly, bright and disorienting.
"Hey—don't do that."
The voice is close. Male. Rough around the edges.
Sixteen freezes.
His eyes flutter open.
White ceiling. White walls. A curtain half-drawn beside the bed. The smell of antiseptic and something faintly metallic.
Hospital, his mind supplies dimly.
Panic surges.
"No—" he croaks, throat dry and raw. "No—can't—"
A large hand presses gently but firmly against his shoulder, keeping him still.
"Easy," the voice says again. "You took a pretty nasty hit. You're not going anywhere yet."
Sixteen turns his eyes slowly toward the source of the voice.
Jim Hopper sits in the chair beside the bed.
Not looming.
Not aggressive.
Just there—broad shoulders hunched forward, elbows braced on his knees, coffee cup forgotten on the floor by his boot. His eyes are bloodshot, his jaw shadowed with stubble, his expression unreadable.
Sixteen's heart slams violently against his ribs.
This is it.
He tries to sit up again.
Hopper's hand tightens.
"Don't," Hopper says quietly. "I mean it."
Sixteen exhales shakily, body sagging back against the mattress.
For a long moment, neither of them speaks.
The silence stretches—thick, heavy, loaded with things neither of them is saying.
Finally, Hopper sighs.
"You scared the hell out of everyone," he says. "You know that?"
Sixteen swallows.
"I didn't—" he starts, then stops. His thoughts slide sluggishly, words sticking together. "I didn't mean to."
Hopper snorts softly.
"Yeah," he says. "Nobody ever does."
He studies Sixteen carefully, eyes sharp despite the exhaustion weighing them down.
"Doctor says you're lucky," Hopper continues. "Concussion. Dislocated shoulder. Lot of cuts and bruises. Could've been worse."
Sixteen doesn't answer.
His gaze drifts to his hands.
They're clean now. Bandaged. IV taped awkwardly to his arm.
They touched me, he thinks distantly. They saw me.
The room feels too small.
"Kid," Hopper says, voice firm but not unkind. "You wanna tell me why you were out in the woods at dawn with blood all over you?"
Sixteen closes his eyes.
Say nothing, instinct screams. Say nothing.
But something else pushes back—something tired and raw and done with running.
"I was helping," he says quietly.
Hopper raises an eyebrow.
"Helping who?"
"A boy," Sixteen replies. "Evan."
Hopper's expression shifts.
Just slightly.
"He told us about you," Hopper says. "Said you pulled him out of the ditch. Told him to run."
Sixteen nods once.
"I did."
Hopper leans back in his chair, studying the ceiling for a moment before looking back down at him.
"You also ran toward whatever took his mother," Hopper says carefully.
Sixteen flinches.
Hopper notices.
"Kid," Hopper says softly. "What did you see out there?"
Sixteen opens his mouth.
Nothing comes out.
Because how do you explain something that doesn't fit in words?
"It wasn't… normal," he says finally.
Hopper lets out a quiet breath.
"No," he agrees. "It wasn't."
Another silence settles between them.
This one is different.
Not interrogation.
Consideration.
Hopper rubs a hand over his face, fatigue etched deep into every line.
"You're not on any missing persons list," he says. "No reports. No school records. No parents calling you in."
Sixteen's chest tightens painfully.
"I don't have any," he whispers.
Hopper studies him again—really studies him this time.
"How old are you?" he asks.
"I don't know," Sixteen answers honestly.
Hopper blinks.
"…You don't know."
Sixteen shakes his head.
"I know I'm not supposed to be here," he says quietly. "I know people look for me when they shouldn't. And I know that if I stay… things get worse."
Hopper's jaw tightens.
"That sounds like someone told you that," he says.
Sixteen doesn't respond.
Because they did.
Over and over and over again.
Hopper leans forward again, forearms resting on his thighs.
"Let me ask you something," he says. "And I want a straight answer."
Sixteen nods faintly.
"Did you hurt that woman?"
The question lands like a punch to the gut.
"No," Sixteen says immediately. Too fast. Too sharp. "I didn't touch her."
Hopper watches him closely.
"And could you have stopped it?"
Sixteen's throat closes.
The memory surges—her eyes, the scream, the moment he turned away.
"I don't know," he whispers.
Hopper exhales slowly.
"Okay," he says. "Okay."
He stands then, towering in the small room, and walks to the window. He pulls the curtain aside just enough to look out, then lets it fall back into place.
"The town's scared," Hopper says, back turned. "People are seeing things. Hearing things. And when people get scared, they start pointing fingers."
Sixteen's pulse spikes.
"I didn't—"
"I know," Hopper cuts in, turning back around. "You didn't. But that doesn't mean they won't."
He steps closer to the bed.
"And that means I've got a choice to make."
Sixteen tenses.
Hopper meets his gaze directly.
"I can treat you like a suspect," he says. "Or I can treat you like a kid who got dragged into something he doesn't understand."
Sixteen swallows hard.
"What happens if I'm the first one?" he asks quietly.
Hopper doesn't hesitate.
"Then I lock you down," he says. "And people I don't trust get very interested in you."
Sixteen's breath stutters.
"And the second?"
Hopper hesitates this time.
"Then I keep you close," he says. "And I make sure nobody else gets to you first."
The words hang in the air.
Sixteen searches Hopper's face for deception.
Finds none.
Just exhaustion.
And something else.
Protectiveness.
It scares him more than suspicion ever could.
"I don't belong here," Sixteen says hoarsely.
Hopper snorts.
"Kid," he says, "nobody who belongs anywhere ends up in my hospital with half the town looking for answers."
He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a folded piece of paper, setting it carefully on the bedside table.
"A social worker's gonna come by later," he says. "Ask some questions. Nothing you can't handle."
Sixteen's heart drops.
"But," Hopper adds, holding up a finger, "she works for me. Not anyone else."
Sixteen looks at the paper like it might bite him.
"And after?" he asks.
Hopper's expression hardens.
"After," he says, "you're coming with me."
Sixteen's breath catches.
"To where?"
Hopper's mouth quirks slightly.
"My cabin."
The word hits Sixteen harder than any blow.
A place.
A fixed point.
"You don't have to decide anything right now," Hopper says. "Doctors want to keep you overnight anyway."
He turns toward the door, pausing with his hand on the handle.
"But for what it's worth," he adds quietly, without looking back, "running toward danger when you could've run away?"
He glances over his shoulder.
"That counts for something in my book."
The door closes softly behind him.
Sixteen lies back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling.
His body aches.
His head spins.
And for the first time since the lab, since the woods, since everything started falling apart—
He isn't alone in the room.
He doesn't know whether that's a miracle or a trap.
But for now, he lets himself rest.