Stiles is in the sparse woods on the slope beside Beacon Hills Cemetery, which wasn’t where Scott said he’d be at all, which is why it takes Derek an hour and a half to find him by following the grease-boy-whiskey scent of the Jeep’s meandering path.

“Well,” Stiles says, “if they’re going to hunt werewolves, I’m going to hunt them.” It’s a ridiculous statement from a ten-year-old, but he’s obviously one hundred percent sincere. For the first time since the fire, Peter feels life stir inside him, feels purpose. It’s kismet, clearly. He’ll never meet the child he would have had with Olivia. Instead he’s met this boy, this brilliant, determined, cynical child with a world of potential. Peter kneels down in front of him so they’re at eye level. “How do you feel about doing that together?”