Stiles Stilinski. She'd know that nervous energy anywhere, even distorted through the fisheye lens. And next to him, Scott McCall. But it was the third figure that made her hand move to the deadbolt. Someone sagging between them, barely upright, blood dark against the porch light.

They didn't argue. Stiles and Scott half-carried the boy inside, and Amelia got her first real look at him. Young. Blond. Shaking like he was trying not to collapse, blood soaking through his shirt from somewhere she couldn't see yet.

They laid him down on the couch. Carefully. Too carefully, like they'd done this before and didn't want to admit it.

The blond boy let out a weak, almost disbelieving laugh.

Outside, something howled. Low and distant, but definitely animal. Definitely not a dog. Stiles went rigid. Scott's jaw tightened. Amelia didn't look up.