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It's been three days since she arrived, and Regan has gotten a little bit used to the Home. She stays out of it as long as she can, all the same, so she doesn't have to worry about trying to interact with her Hearing roommates. It isn't that she thinks they're bad people. It's just . . . a lot. Another reminder that she's not like them. That she's Other.

So, she wakes up early and heads out, and she stays out all day, until just before curfew, and heads back in. She does that every day, now, and maybe it's a little cowardly, but she's also giving herself time to get used to the city proper, using the map Greta showed her and marking things of interest on it as she goes.

She's marked the cat cafe down, and that really cool tinker's shop.

She's set to start school next Monday. It would have been sooner, but she requested an extra week. Part of it is because she's nervous. She'll have an interpreter, but it's been so long since she's been in school. What if she's behind her peers?

She doesn't want to think about it. Instead, Regan heads towards the park, wearing her new winter boots that Greta helped her buy. She swings by an Ahab's and grabs herself a hot cocoa with espresso in it, and ends up adding extra sugar to sweeten it back up. The park is a nice place, and she gets to see all sorts of different things and people here.

Even if she's just killing time until curfew.

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It's been cold lately in a way that seems to speak of impending snow, but Beverly isn't fazed by that in the slightest. Even having somewhere to live that she actually likes, staying with Hopper still almost seemingly too good to be true, she's never been much for being cooped up indoors for very long. So it is that, bundled up in a coat and scarf and gloves, she's ridden her bike out to the park, stopping by a picnic bench to check her phone, considering texting Eddie or Richie to see what they're up to.

Before she gets a chance, she spots a girl she doesn't recognize but who looks to be about her age headed down the path. Once, she might have looked away and not acknowledged anyone else, too used to being at the bottom of the metaphorical social barrel, but now, she smiles, lifting one gloved hand in a wave. "Hi."

The girl waves back, a small smile on her own face. She seems willing enough to leave it at that, at least for a moment. Then she burrows into the backpack on the ground by her feet and pulls out a notebook and pencil. Flipping to an empty page, she writes something down quickly, then she turns it to face the girl.

I'm not being rude. I can't hear. Hello.

It seems, at first, like a puzzling response, though Beverly doesn't let on as much beyond a slightly furrowed brow. Once she sees what the other girl has written, though, it makes sense. Her eyes widen a little, and she nods in recognition, faltering for just a moment as she tries to figure out how best to respond. Her phone winds up seeming easiest, an instinct that she wouldn't have had even just a few months ago. Opening her Notes app, she types a quick message.

Hi! Sorry, I'm not sure what the best way to talk is -- are phones good or is there something better?

She holds the phone out in turn, then, the screen facing the other girl and her expression friendly.

Typing on the phone might be faster, but Regan's already committed to using her notebook, so after she reads the girl's message, she lowers her pencil to the page again.

If you know how to sign (in ASL) then that would be better, but if you don't, then this is fine. Most Hearing people don't unless they have a reason to. She looks up at the girl before turning the page to face her, and adds, I'm Regan. I like your hair.

On one hand, Beverly can't say that she's ever had a conversation like this with someone in person, writing back and forth out of necessity. On the other, it isn't really all that different from texting; she's just showing what she's written instead of sending it. Easy enough, and she decides quickly, easily, that it's not like she wouldn't just not talk to someone because they can't hear her. It seems like the kind of dick move the kids she went to school with back home would have pulled, and that's not her. If a few sentences are telling enough, then Regan seems nice, and for her own part, Beverly can roll with this.

Thanks! I'm Beverly, she types, already smiling before she finishes and holds her phone back out. It's nice to meet you. I don't think I've seen you around before?

I've only been here for a few days, Regan writes, And I've been sort of all over the place, looking at all the cool things. It's pretty different from where I'm from. A dinky town in the midwest haha.

She feels a little bashful as she turns the page to face her, and this time it's because she regrets clarifying where she's from. It's not like Beverly will suddenly hate her just because she's midwestern, right? It's not like she'll judge her for being from a small town instead of a city like Darrow.

Right?

I totally get that. I'm from a small town in Maine, nothing like this at all. Beverly grins, nose wrinkling a little as she holds her phone back over. She's been here long enough now that she's gotten pretty used to it, but she remembers how mind-blowing it had been at first, suddenly being in the middle of a big city, never mind one almost thirty years in the future. That's always a strange detail to drop into conversation, though, and she doesn't want to make this too weird too soon. If Regan has only been here for a few days, then she's probably had a lot to take in already, and Beverly doesn't know what she might have found out yet.

That's a relief, and Regan feels her shoulders relax a little. It's so weird, here! And I've met people from different timeframes and even different worlds and they tell me that there's magic where they're from. It doesn't feel real sometimes. Like I'll just wake up and suddenly be back home and this is all a weird dream.

Okay, she'd gotten a little rambly there. It's a relief, though, that it sounds like Beverly is from a place sort of like hers. The culture shock of coming to a fairly large city is hard to explain to someone who's from a city, and now she and Beverly have something concrete in common.

For all that Beverly doesn't think she's ever really sat and conversed with anyone like this, it's not all that different from texting as she gets into it, easy to fall into a rhythm. Regan is easy to talk to, too; Beverly likes her instinctively, nodding along as she reads what Regan has written before typing out her own response.

Right? It's crazy. Like something out of a sci-fi movie or something. I thought I knew weird, and then I got here. She doesn't often like to talk about home a lot, or about the fact that she hopes she doesn't wake up to find this was all a weird dream, but she doesn't want to be disingenuous, either. Things got pretty crazy back there for a while, but it's nothing compared to what happens in Darrow on a regular basis.

I think I like it, though, Regan writes. It feels weird to say, like she's somehow betraying her family. But it's still the truth. She turns it to show Beverly, then makes a face and continues, Is that awful? I feel like a bad daughter for even thinking it. But it is kind of better here.

She still struggles with how much she wants to tell her, but at the very least, she can say that much.

Though Beverly understands full well that there are people in Darrow who miss home, who have good reasons to, it's almost a relief to read. She lets out a breath, shaking her head even before she types a response. Not awful at all. As weird as it might be here, it's way better than it was at home. She pauses a beat, thinking she'll leave it at that, but then adds on a whim, I'm glad it's not just me.

She holds the phone back out to Regan then, pleased if a little more self-conscious than the situation probably calls for. She's not great at making friends, mostly because she's never had any of them. While she still may not be inclined to talk about some of the reasons why she's happier here and what she left behind at home, though, she does feel a little more at ease for knowing that she's not the only one who thinks it's better here.

It's a huge relief to read, and Regan can't stop the smile that spreads, or the way her shoulders sag.

"Thank God," she says, but leaves it at that since she's still holding her notebook and pencil. Same here, honestly, she adds to the page. Hey, how weird does it get here? Everyone I talk to keeps kind of hinting that it can be messed up, but then they don't say how. It can't be worse than home, right?

Beverly wrinkles her nose as she starts to type. Uh, pretty weird... from ridiculous to creepy. On New Year's, there were gingerbread cookies that attacked people? And not to creep you out, but I'm pretty sure the Home is haunted. Her expression is lighthearted but apologetic as she holds the phone over. It feels kind of shitty saying so, but there's no sense in downplaying it, and it's probably better that Regan finds out sooner rather than later anyway. She wouldn't want to be in the dark about that sort of thing, and she doubts anyone else would.

That has Regan's eyebrows shooting up. She isn't sure how to take it at first, so she writes Literal gingerbread cookies? as if Beverly might mean people dressed up like them or something else. That's... pretty bizarre, honestly, and Regan's seen bizarre.

The idea that the Home might be haunted almost skates over her awareness, but she catches it at the last minute and frowns. She hasn't noticed anything, yet. Hopefully it stays that way.

Literal gingerbread cookies, Beverly types, nodding as she does in preemptive confirmation. It was SO weird. I mean, weird even for this place. Weird by her standards, too, and as hazy as some of those memories might be, she knows she has an unusual standard in that regard. Darrow's got its fair share of bizarre shit and then some, but a lot of people come from places where that wasn't the case already, at least from what she can tell, or if it was, it wasn't like this.

Not wanting to sound too ominous, though, she adds quickly, But most of the time, it's pretty normal? Like things are quiet for a while, and then they get crazy really quickly, and then they just get quiet again.

That's all a weird way to refer to a place, but at least Regan feels a little better prepared now. It seemed too good to be true that the quiet would last forever, anyway. It hadn't at home, either, and here... well, it's weirdly comforting that it's not different in that respect.

Is there usually any warning for that? she writes in her notebook. She draws a little emoji nervous face, with closed eyes and a squiggly mouth, beside her question.

Not really, Beverly types, including a little grimacing emoji after the words. But apparently there's usually something on New Year's. NOT usually weird attacking cookies, though. She's heard enough rumors that it's not always easy to separate fact from fiction. She doesn't want to go giving the wrong idea, but she doesn't want to let Regan go unwarned, either.

But even with all that, I like it here.

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