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Stiles counted his packbonds the way other people counted prayers. Scott. Kira. Lydia. Jackson. Isaac. Malia.
Derek.
He touched each one in sequence, the way you checked for your keys before leaving the house – the habit of it, the specific comfort of finding them present. He’d been doing it every few minutes for the last hour. The intervals were getting shorter.
He didn’t think about his dad.
He had been not-thinking about his dad for sixteen hours and he was getting very good at it.
Lydia screamed somewhere behind him and to the left, not in fear, in announcement, the sound that meant the universe was making something official that had already been decided. The banshee’s wail rose through the trees and hit the canopy and came back down changed, and Stiles felt Jackson’s packbond flicker twice like a lamp in a loose socket and then go still.
He kept running.