"What the hell is that thing?"

"How should I know?"

"You're the expert!"

"Says who?"

Once upon a time, a quiet evening would have been impossible for Stiles to deal with. His life was different now. If the past few months had taught him anything at all, it had been that a night without the risk of dismemberment or death should be treasured, and Stiles was going to treasure the hell out of this one. So, there he sat, humming softly to himself, textbook open on his desk, notebook in his lap, copying out passages that seemed especially likely to be on a test. He glanced up whenever the police scanner crackled to life, but the idle chatter he heard told him that his dad was having a relaxing evening as well.

The piercing howl of a wolf broke the relative silence of the room. Stiles jerked and almost fell out of his chair. Grunting, he reached over and grabbed his phone.

NEW MULTIMEDIA MESSAGE!
FROM: Asshat
What does this mean?

Stiles sighed and opened the picture from Derek. He couldn't make out much detail, so he forwarded the file and opened it on his laptop. It was a symbol carved into a tree, in the center was Derek's tattoo, surrounded by a circle. Piercing the circle were two arrows, pointing to the right. It was weird, and Stiles thought it looked vaguely familiar.

REPLY TO: Asshat
Since you asked so nicely, I guess I can look into it once I finish my HW.

His message sent, Stiles tried to get back to what he'd been reading, but the image of the strange symbol kept distracting him. It was a puzzle, and Stiles couldn't not try to figure out a puzzle. Swearing to, or perhaps at, himself, he flipped his textbook closed and tossed it toward his bed. It thumped loudly to the floor. He had just pulled up the picture when the wolf howled again.

NEW TEXT MESSAGE!
FROM: Asshat
No. Now.

It was followed a moment later by another text.

Please.

"Please?" Stiles asked, stunned. "Please?" That disturbed him more than the creepy symbol. Frowning in concentration, he stared at the screen, absentmindedly copying the design into his notebook. He looked down at what he'd drawn. It looked so familiar. Part of it, he knew, was the triskelion, Derek's tattoo, so he drew the symbol without it. Then, something clicked. He didn't know what it meant, but he knew how to find out. Grinning, he rushed out of his room and down the stairs.

Stiles was not having a good day. His teacher had yelled at him, and all the other kids laughed at him until he was on the verge of tears. Stiles didn't want to act up in class, but sometimes sitting still was so hard. When he got home, he marched straight into his room and began gathering his things. He laid a shirt out on his bed and began placing them one by one on it. Two action figures, a ball, a comic book, his favorite stuffed dog, a box of crayons, and a small notebook. He carefully folded the shirt and tied the edges together around his baseball bat, then threw the whole thing over his shoulder and strode purposefully down the stairs and out the door.

"Where do you think you're going, mister?" his mother asked as he headed down the walkway.

"I'm running away," Stiles replied without turning around, "I'm going to go live at the circus."

"Oh? I think the circus left already."

Stiles sniffed. "Then I'll go find it."

"That sounds like a good plan, but why do you want to go live in a circus?"

"At the circus, no one yells at you when you get bored, and no one ever laughs at you either, unless you're being funny. At the circus they just juggle and eat popcorn and train the lions."

"But won't you miss me and your daddy? I bet no one at the circus can make you special pancakes."

Stiles stopped slouching; He hadn't thought of that. "Maybe you and Daddy could come with me."

"I don't know. Why don't you stay here until Daddy comes home, and then we can ask him?"

"Okay," Stiles said softly, and turned around. He headed back towards his mother, who took the baseball bat off his shoulder and gave him a big hug.

"You did a good job tying your bindle," she told him.

"My what?"

"That's the name for this thing you made. Come with me, I want to show you something."

They'd gone inside, and his mother had pulled a book off the shelf. Stiles sat in her lap as she showed him pictures and told him stories about the hobos and tramps that used to ride the trains, sometimes right through Beacon Hills, looking for work or food or a safe place to sleep. He loved the stories, and every day begged her for more. She taught him about the secret signs they used to tell one another about houses where kind people lived, or towns it wasn't safe to visit. She helped him copy the signs from her books and learn what they meant. Sometimes he'd come home from school to find a piece of paper taped to the front door, and he'd peer intently at the symbols, following directions around the house until he found his mother, smiling, laughing, with a tray of snacks.

Stiles sniffed and tried not to wipe at his eyes as he stood in front of his mother's bookcase. She'd been an avid reader, obsessive collector, and a local history junkie. Stiles' dad didn't have the heart to get rid of his wife's books, so they stayed on the shelf, gathering dust, except for the rare occasions he or Stiles could bear to take one down. Stiles scanned the titles until he found the one he was looking for, and with a sigh, he pulled it off the shelf and flipped to the index.

A few minutes later, he dropped the book to the floor, and rushed back to his room.