It was Tuesday night when Sheriff Stilinski heard a discordant banging on the front door. Three loud, insistent smacks followed by a moment's pause and then another bang, just for good measure. The sheriff glanced at the clock near the television; 9:47.

"Who, in Hell, would be knocking this late at night?" He muttered as he rose from where he was seated on an armchair. He flicked on the hall light as he approached the door. When he opened it he was not entirely sure of what or who he had expected to be on the other side but the soaking, exhausted girl who stood there was definitely not even fathomed. She was panting slightly and looked as though she was on the verge of an emotional breakdown.

"Um, hello?" The sheriff said as he appraised the girl who stood before him under the scrutiny of the porch light.

Her long, wet, black hair stuck to her face and the dark hoodie she was wearing. It spewed over the backpack she had strapped to her shoulders. The rain that was pouring behind her seemed not to have left a single part of the girl untouched. Her jeans were dark and dripping from the rain's influence and the sheriff could even hear her feet squelching in her sneakers as she shifted her weight slightly. It was a warm, spring night but the onset of rain had put a nip in the air. Although, the sheriff didn't think she had even noticed because she was breathing quite heavily and the pink in her cheeks told him that she had been running. And she had; quite a long way in fact. She had sprinted five miles to a bus stop and proceeded to take the hour road trip to Beacon Hills, urgency eating at her the whole way. Once leaving the bus route at the town grocery store she continued to run the three miles to the porch she was currently standing on.

"Hi." She exhaled in a gust, dropping her arms form her backpack straps to her side in fatigue. Her lip quivered as she swiveled her head around to examine the street behind her one last time. "Um," returning her gaze to the sheriff in his pajamas.

The sheriff eyed her inquisitively, unsure the reason for her hesitation.

"Um," she started again, "sorry, I'm just a little preoccupied. Hello." She returned his gaze trying to keep her emotions in check. She was here for a reason. Not that she really had anywhere else to go anymore. "I'm Charlie." She stuck out her hand, offering it.

The sheriff took it noting its pruned, cold and clammy condition.

"I'm Sheriff Stilinski."

"Oh, I know. You arrested my brother once." She stated nonchalantly.

"Oh. I - I'm sorry?"

"Oh, no! I'm sure he deserved it." She reassured by waving a hand dismissively "Is Stiles home? I'm looking for Stiles. Is he home?" She blurted out in a rush.

And suddenly this whole encounter made much more sense to the sheriff. Of course this is one of Stiles friends.

"Yeah, he is. Would you like to come in?" He stepped aside to let her enter as she cast a quick glance behind her out of habit without really seeing anything.

Tuesday night at 10 o'clock. Typically the sheriff would have turned a friend away, especially if it was Scott, but this girl seemed unusually antsy, even scared.

"Wait here for a second?" Charlie gave him a nod as he walked to the base of the stairs. "Stiles?" He yelled. "There's someone here to see you. Come on down."

They only waited half a minute until Stiles' bare feet came into view on the stairs as he padded down them wearing the jeans and t-shirt he wore to school that day.

His expression increased with curiosity with every step he took. Reaching where the other two stood he put a small smile on his face. He eyes glanced inquiringly between his father and the water logged girl.

"Hi," he smiled wider at her, "who's this dad?" looking at his father.

At this statement the puzzled look returned to the sheriff's face as both males looked back and the girl, confused.

"Stiles," she stared at him. She knew it was a long shot coming here. "Do you remember me?" she whispered, her eyes boring into his searching for some spark of recognition. When he remained silent, tilting his head to the right a fraction and narrowing his eyes slightly in uncertainty, she continued. "Third grade. The jungle gym." Her eyes were pleading, so desperately pleading. She started questioning why she had come. Why did she think he would remember her from when they were eight years old? They were both seventeen now, how could she have expected him to remember something so insignificant from so long ago?

Stiles stared at her a moment longer before the corners of his mouth upturned, "Charlie?"

When she let out a sigh of relief that sounded suspiciously like a sob, he continued.

"Charlotte Flint?" his smile grew bigger as she nodded, weaning back from the edge of the mental breakdown that threatened to overtake her. "We used to get in trouble during recess because we would hang upside down on the monkey bars, and then we had to sit at the picnic table for the rest of the period" he exclaimed looking at his father beaming from ear to ear, then back at Charlie. "You moved away after that year. How are you?" He leaned forward and embraced her, not even hesitating at the fact that she was dripping water.

"I'm okay." A faint smile on her lips as he retreated with wet blotches on his own shirt. She was ecstatic that he remembered and that this impossible trip hadn't been for nothing. Dropping every pretense of what was just playful and reminiscent she started at him. "Could I… talk to you? Please?" returning to her somber expression; looking meaningfully at the sheriff and back to Stiles, clearly saying 'could we talk? Alone?'

"Yeah, um, we can go to my room." He suggested jerking his thumb over his shoulder towards the stairs. "And you could dry off a bit" he added with a feeble laugh. Stiles looked at his dad, kind of asking permission.

"If you need anything, I'll be down here." The sheriff complied.