“Hey, Scott, so, I uh, there’s this amazingly hot guy and I’m uh, gonna spend the weekend with him but, you know, just to be careful, I’m sending you his picture, so if by some terrible chance my bloated corpse shows up sometime Monday, just, y’know pass this along to the authorities.” He pauses. “Uh. Kidding?” and then hangs up with a rush of air. “That is the worst voicemail in the history of voicemails,” Derek says.

“We weren’t going to get out of the car,” Stiles says again, and big fucking help that is now, with Scott’s side shredded by a fucking sabre-tooth tiger or whatever. “Just tell me what happened,” his Dad says.