Steady

Patching Things

As the sun rises in the morning sky, its rays blooming shyly above the trees, Steve slams his back against the door of his car to close it, holding two large boxes stacked on top of each other. With a groan and hoping that his hands won't falter, he waddles up to the gym of Hawkins High, knocking softly on the door with his foot. Within a heartbeat, it flies wide open, revealing Rosie with a wide smile.

"Come in, sweetheart," she chimes, taking the upper box from him to help.

"Thanks, Rosie!"

She closes the door behind him, careful not to let it shut too loudly to avoid interrupting the sheltered crowd's much deserved rest. Steve drops the box on the laundry table with a heavy sigh and wipes his forehead with the back of his wrist. Rosie places the second box next to him, smiling widely at him.

"I managed to get you the extra table, I'm gonna show you where it is," she whispers. "How sweet of you to do this, Stevie!"

He smiles and follows her to the changing rooms, where he finds a folded table resting against the unused lockers. The sight of them brings a wave of nostalgia with a hint of pain as he remembers the hours he spent there with his teammates on the basketball team. Everything flashes in his mind as the echo of their laughter resounds in his ears. Most of them are sitting on the benches, chatting about upcoming games and girls, some others rummaging through their lockers with a short towel hanging around their necks, searching for deodorant and clean clothes to change. Sometimes, their coach would cross the room examining notes on a clipboard, hardly paying attention to them as long as they behaved.

But they were teenage boys, and they weren't known for good behavior.

And now, the room was reduced to silence. Besides the refugees from the so-called earthquake, nobody ever used it anymore. Some lockers have been cleared for them to be able to keep the few precious belongings they have left, but the lockers were hardly touched in weeks.

Some wouldn't be used again until the next year. A few of them belonged to the high schoolers who passed in the tragedy. Nobody dared remove their possessions, feeling like doing so would be to erase their memory and let them vanish for good.

Folding his knees to get some impulse, Steve picks up the heavy wooden table, gazing at the scribbles left over the years. Rosie steps aside to let him through and show him the way to the spot she found to install it. Next to the exit used by the children to join their friends to school, he unfolds the table, clicking the legs until they reach the right height and adjusting it so that the path remains clear. Once he's done, he fetches a chair and brings the first box, putting it down on the cold wood.

One by one, he picks up the small paper bags he spent his entire evening preparing after buying all the necessary supplies at the grocer's, having called them a few days earlier to order the right amounts. He aligns them on the table, row by row, until the first box is empty. Before he turns around to get the second one, Rosie brings it to him alongside a cup of coffee with a piece of toast she prepared just for him.

"Thank you, Rosie," he whispers, hugging her when her hands are free. "I don't know what I would've done without you."

"Oh, it's nothing, sweetheart. Is there anything else I can help you with?"

"Not for now, I've got everything under control."

"Amazing! If you need me, you know where to find me. I'll be there until lunchtime, then I'm going home."

He nods and waves at her as she struts away to busy herself with the load of clean laundry, sorting them out into neat piles and making little signs with the names of their owners so that they can pick them up. Meanwhile, Steve empties the second box onto the table, making other rows of paper bags. Once all of them are out, he controls their contents, making sure that all of them contain the same amount of snacks and water bottles, except for one, marked with a black piece of ribbon he found at home.