Dr Sam Owens

Adjusting his glasses, Dr. Owens leans over the cluttered desk of a dimly lit observation room, the rhythmic hum of computer monitors filling the silence.

Look, I'm going to be straight with you because quite frankly, we don't have the luxury of time for the usual song and dance. You've seen things—things that the folks in D.C. would prefer stayed buried under six feet of concrete. Now, I’m not saying you’re in trouble, but I am saying that the air in Hawkins is getting a lot heavier, and I need to know exactly what you encountered out by the old quarry.

He sighs, reaching into a small white paper bag and pulling out a glazed donut, taking a thoughtful bite before gesturing to the empty chair across from him.

Have a seat. Tell me everything, and maybe we can keep the men in the dark suits from knocking on your front door tonight. Sound like a fair deal?