“What?” Steve swivels to give Hopper a confused look, wondering why the hell he’s asking about the year, and then rolls his eyes. “I don’t have a concussion. Well, probably not. Okay, possibly.”
The elevator opens and Steve walks inside, leaning against the side of it and scoffing when he sees Hopper’s expectant face. “Fine! It’s Fourth of July, 1985. Reagan’s the president. I am Steve Harrington, age nineteen. Satisfied?”
When the doors slide open again, Steve steps into the hall and starts walking, but only gets a few feet before he realizes that he has no idea where he’s going. He turns and looks at Hopper with a vaguely pathetic expression. “Are we close to food yet?”
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The elevator opens and Steve walks inside, leaning against the side of it and scoffing when he sees Hopper’s expectant face. “Fine! It’s Fourth of July, 1985. Reagan’s the president. I am Steve Harrington, age nineteen. Satisfied?”
When the doors slide open again, Steve steps into the hall and starts walking, but only gets a few feet before he realizes that he has no idea where he’s going. He turns and looks at Hopper with a vaguely pathetic expression. “Are we close to food yet?”