Chapter Twenty-Nine. Bob the Brain

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TWENTY-NINE
bob the brain













SHE FELT DISGUSTING. She had slept in the same pair of jeans two days in a row, her hair was greasy, she had a pounding headache, and her occasional anxious stomach ache had become constant. The skin on Lucy's thumb had been relentlessly picked at, to the point were it was bleeding— that wasn't going to stop her, though. Sitting criss-cross on the Byers' sofa, she let her eyes bore into one of the drawings before her. There was almost nothing to look at; an aimless bunch of scribbles on a crinkled piece of paper. But, in the larger scheme, it told a story. The tunnels of Will's mind. And, knowing that story, she felt sick. Lucy wanted to sink into the cushions and cease to exist.

Her brother left at the crack of dawn, and she hadn't heard from him since. She was silently begging him to call, whether it was from Dustin's house, the cabin, or wherever. Radio silence. For all she knew, he and Dustin had been devoured by a Demogorgan.

Lucy swore, her face was green. The anxiety-nausea was literally seeping into her skin, displaying itself in ways that others could see. She continued to pick at her skin, occasionally glancing down at the gash on her thumb, before looking back up at the wall of drawings. She heard footsteps from down the hall— they echoed her way, heavy, and coming up from behind her. Then, a hand on her shoulder.

"We'll find him, Lucy." Her words were soft, comforting. Joyce spoke in such a gentle tone, Lucy almost believed her. The way the words rolled off her tongue, the genuineness behind them. When the teenager didn't respond, the woman moved from behind the sofa. With a sharp pointer finger to one of the drawings, she tapped. "He's here."

Lucy swallowed the lump in her throat. She backed up into the sofa. "But, where is here?" she spoke, nearly in a whisper.

Her face fell. The woman had dreaded that question— her stomach tangled into a knot, and she dropped her hand to her side. There was no definite answer to what Lucy has asked. A thought conjured in Joyce's mind, and the sentence was on the tip of her tongue; then, a car pulled into the driveway. A red Camry parked perfectly, and her brows lifted.

    There was a light knock on the door, and she opened it immediately. Lucy watched as a man spoke to Joyce; with a sweet smile on his face, he held out an armful of brain-games. He nodded, as if he were explaining something, and the woman held the door open only a crack. She recognized him— Bob Newby, the worker at Radio Shack.

     "I can teach them to him," Bob said, looking down at his games.

    Joyce pursed her lips. "He's sleeping."

    The man's shoulders fell. "Okay," he sighed. "...I can wait with you."

"Listen, it's just not a good time," the woman said, speaking between her teeth. "I'll call you, okay?"

    A soft smile spread on Lucy's pink lips. She pressed her forehead to the doorway, humming lightly. "Bob the Brain," she murmured, watching as the man trodded towards his car.

She could see the gears shift in Joyce's head. Her eyes lit up, and her brows raised. Pulling her attention back towards the closed door, she rushed forward, and yanked it open. "Bob!"

Bob Newby was a genius, and she was sure of it. The way his brain worked was special— with the brain-games in his hands, he stared up at the drawings plastered across the wall. His brow twitched, and Bob cleared his throat. "You, um... drew these?"

Apocalypse, Steve HarringtonWhere stories live. Discover now