More Bad Than Good

I wake up, and we're bringing Allison up to speed on what happened when we searched for Malia in the woods last night before Mr. Yukimura's history class starts.

"You're right that she won't go back to the den," Allison says, tracing a path along the map I've got up on my tablet with one finger. "Coyotes don't like wolves. And they're really smart – if they don't want to be heard, they actually walk on their toes."

I gape at her. "They tiptoe?"

She rolls her eyes. "Yes, they tiptoe."

The bell rings and Allison rushes out. I wander to my seat, mulling over the new information, and amusedly watch Scott and Kira have yet another horribly awkward but insanely cute conversation. This is so going to be another Allison situation.

I tune in to hear Yukimura say, "There's a passage in our reading that I'd like to go over in more detail. Who would like to come up and read aloud for us?"

Oh, God, don't call on me. I couldn't even write my name on the top of my trig homework last night, it just came out all squiggles and backwards E's, and there's only one E in my name. I think. Whatever Yukimura's got written on the board might as well be in Klingon.

"Mr. Stilinski, how about you?"

I freeze. No no no no no. "Oh, uh…maybe someone else could…?"

"Everyone participates in my class, Mr. Stilinski," Yukimura says with a kind smile that I inexplicably want to violently punch off his face.

"Oh, ah…okay," I mumble. Don't panic. I push myself up out of my chair and head to the front of the room, where Yukimura has our textbook open to a page that, for a second, looks normal. I breathe a sigh of relief, but the page instantly blurs and my heart rate rockets. C'mon, Stiles, focus, I berate myself, wrapping my fingers around the edges of the podium and squeezing so hard that I'm surprised I don't break something. Focus. Just breathe and focus. You've been reading since kindergarten, this isn't hard.

In response, letters start to drop out of words and swim toward the bottom of the page, and my vision starts going black around the edges.

Help, I think. Someone help. I try to look up, try to get away from the mass of swirling letters, but the class is smudgy and the ground is shifting under me. I'm dimly aware of Scott walking toward me, carefully saying my name, but the floor tilts up sharply and one of my elbows hits the podium for support. It's hard to breathe.

"I should take him to the nurse's office," I think I hear Scott say over my head, and then he's got one hand on my upper arm and one on the back of my next and he's guiding me out of the classroom.

I stumble willingly down the hall and around corners, happy to be away from the words, but the panic is firmly set in now and walls are moving and my lungs seize up and I can't tell if I'm moving too fast or if the rest of the world is moving too fast, but something is definitely moving too fast and none of this is real, I've got to be dreaming again, if I could just wake up then everything would be fine –

We burst into the boys' locker room and I stagger a few steps, feeling time move in fits and starts around me. The tiny part of my brain that's still sane registers Scott asking if this is panic attack, and I shake my head while bracing my hands on the sink.

"It's a dream," I gasp. "It's just a dream."

"It's not," Scott interrupts. "This is real. You're here – you're here with me."

I stare at my reflection in the cracked mirror. No – no, this has to be a dream, because I can't read, and if I can't read in real life, then there's something much much worse than Russian-freaking-nesting-doll dreams going on –

"Okay, okay…what do you do?" Scott asks. "I mean, like – how do you tell if you're awake or dreaming?"

That little sane part cycles through everything I've read. "Fingers," I manage, spinning one of my hands wildly. "You count your fingers, you have extra fingers in dreams."

I don't say that I found that particular piece of information while I was doing research three days ago, right before I walked into a classroom and found Lydia dead in a chair, strangled by Ms. Blake, only to wake up and find myself back in the Nemeton grove –

"Okay – how many do I have?" Scott says. I don't immediately respond, trapped in a chorus of waking up but not really waking up, and he yells the next bit. "Look at me! Come on, Stiles! Look at my hands and count with me."

I rip my hands free of the sink and face him, reaching out for something, anything, I can use to steady myself. My lungs still aren't really working, and there's a voice in my head screaming that if I count Scott's fingers, I'm not going to like what I find.

Scott holds up one finger and says, "One."

A second finger. "…two?" I try, and it comes out as a panicked question.

A third finger, and the screaming voice gets louder and louder and it hurts, but Scott yells over it to keep going, so I manage to say "Three," and then "Four" doesn't feel quite as hard.

"Five," Scott says confidently, and we're done with his first hand. That's good – five fingers on one hand. Wait, is that right? How sure am I that it's not supposed to be four?

I shove that thought away and look to Scott's left hand. "Six. Seven."

Scott nods, says "Eight," and things are a little less shaky.

"Nine," I say, and with another shuddering breath, "Ten."

I look back and forth between his hands. All fingers accounted for. Ten.

"Ten," Scott confirms.

I'm not dreaming. Ten fingers, and I'm not dreaming. That's good – I'm actually awake? - but that's also…that means that I can't read at all. Even when I am awake.

I slide to the floor, willing my breathing to even out, and Scott crouches in front of me.

I let out another horribly shaky breath. "What the hell is happening to me?"

"We'll figure it out," Scott says. "You're going to be okay."

I'm struck by the absurdity of that statement. "Why? Are you?" He doesn't answer, but I push forward. "Scott, you can't transform. Allison is being haunted by her dead aunt. I'm straight-up losing my mind."

Scott still doesn't answer, but the next words are out of my mouth before I can stop them, and they're the first thing I've been sure of in a long, long time. "We can't do this. We can't – we can't help Malia." We can't even help ourselves.

Scott shifts, so that he's sitting in front of me. Resignation reads on his face, and I know that he knows I'm right, but there's something else there, too – resolve.

"We can try," he says. "We can always try."

I go back to class for second period, but any attempt at normalcy for the day ends when three things happen nearly at once.

First, I get a text from Scott.

Malia at school. Tried to attack Kira – why's that doll in your lax bag?

Second, the overhead alarm system kicks in, declaring this a Code Blue – someone or something hostile on school ground, stay in your classrooms and lock the door.

It's followed almost instantly by a text from my dad.

Coyote attack at BHHS. School going into lockdown – meet me by the gym when your room's clear.

Mr. Albertson pokes his head into the hallway, snags a few kids walking past, and locks the door behind them.

"Everyone just stay calm," he says, running through the attendance list and making quick calls to the teachers of the students he grabbed from the hallway. "I don't know any more than you do, so there's no point in asking. Now would be a good opportunity to finish last night's problem set, if you didn't happen to get to it."

A few students laugh sheepishly and pull out their textbooks. I actually did last night's homework – the numbers tend to stay in place better than letters - so I just anxiously fiddle with my phone.

It doesn't take long for the lockdown to clear, and I sprint across campus to the gym.

"A couple of students said they saw it running across a field and back into the woods," my dad says when I barrel into him. "Thank God nobody got hurt."

"What happens if she does hurt someone?" I ask.

My dad sighs. "Most likely, they'll have to put it down."

"Her down," I correct. "Dad, try not to forget – there's a girl in there, one that you'll be killing. Come on – you're not back to not believing, are you?"

"You know what," my dad says, stopping in the middle of the hallway and turning to face me, "I believe that there are a lot of things I don't understand yet. But that doesn't mean that everything and anything imaginable is suddenly possible. Now…are you 100% sure that this is a girl, and not an animal?"

"Yes," I say, practically before he's done speaking. "Because Scott's sure." I see Scott out of the corner of my eye at the end of the hallway, and figure another demonstration might be in order. I shift so that my back is to Scott, and quietly say, "Scott, you been listening?"

I watch my dad's face move from frustration to disbelief to acceptance, and know that Scott must have given some signal. My dad sighs again. "Let's get this figured out."

After school, Scott, Isaac, and I head to the only place we know to go when we're stuck for a solution – Deaton's.

He gives us horse tranquilizers. "Whoever's shooting will need to be a damn good shot."

"Allison's a perfect shot," Scott says.

"She used to be," Isaac interjects.

"She can do it," Scott defends.

"If we manage to find the thing."

"Okay, what is the point of him?" I say, frustrated. "Seriously - what is his purpose? Aside from the persistent negativity and the scarf? What's up with the scarf, anyway? It's sixty-five degrees out."

"Look, maybe I'm asking the question here that no one wants to ask," Isaac continues stubbornly. "How do we turn a coyote back into a girl, when she hasn't been a girl for eight years?"

"I can do it," Scott says after a beat. He explains his theory – both Peter and Deucalion have forced him to change into and out of his wolf form, just by roaring as Alphas. Deaton's not buying it, though, and with good reason. Scott's never really been that great at the whole Alpha thing.

"That's why you called Derek first," I say. "To ask for help. Where the hell is Derek, anyway?"

Scott shrugs. "I haven't heard back from him since the Nemeton. I could try it on my own, but right now I'm too scared to even turn into just a werewolf. "

"We need a real Alpha," I say, scrubbing my hand across my face. Scott looks at me, offended. "You know what I mean – an Alpha who can do Alpha things. And Alpha who can do Alpha things, you know, get it…"

"Up?" Isaac offers, helpfully, and I'm once again seized by the irrational urge to assault someone.

"Great!" Scott says. "I'm an Alpha with performance issues."

"Is there anyone else besides Derek who could help?" Deaton asks, trying to bring us back to the point of the conversation.

"The twins?" I venture. Deaton explains that Jennifer broke their Alpha-ness when she almost killed them, but that's not what I'm getting at. "They might know how to do it, though."

"No one's seen them for weeks," Scott points out.

"Well, actually, that's not totally true," I say, pulling my phone out of my pocket and pressing the number to speed-dial a certain fiery redhead. I ignore the fact that I can only identify her contact record by the picture – the words next to it read "RNAYI DALTIM."

"Stiles," her voice sighs into the phone. "You're interrupting a perfectly supernatural-free night of pampering."

"I know, Lyds, and I'm sorry," I say, turning my back to Isaac, who's making smoochy faces, and Scott, who looks astonished that Lydia even picks up my calls. "I've got a favor to ask. And you're not going to like it."

After a disastrous attempt to get Aiden and Ethan to teach Scott how to control his Alpha form, the five of us – me, Lydia, Scott, Allison, and Isaac – wind up somewhere we've been all too often recently: parked by the edge of the preserve, weapons ready, preparing to take on an enemy we really don't know that much about. Isaac is being overly kind to Allison – something must have happened when they were getting the tranquilizer gun ready. I wonder, not for the first time, which of us got the worst bargain with our side effects.

The first shot startles all of us into silence, and within seconds Scott, Isaac, and Allison take off into the woods. I immediately call my dad, who explains that coyote-Malia got into the Tate house and took that stupid doll.

"It took the doll again?" I exclaim, exasperated. Lydia watches me carefully, listening in on one side of the conversation. "What the hell is so important about that doll?"

"I don't know, Stiles, but listen," my dad says. I'm half paying attention as he explains that Tate's put traps out all over the woods, and that he's out in the trees with a rifle, but most of my brain is on overdrive somewhere else. The doll, the stupid doll – why would Malia leave the safety of the preserve, go all the way to the school, then all the way back to Tate's house, for a stupid, half-ripped apart doll?

I absentmindedly promise my dad that we'll be safe, then hang up. I go to show Lydia the picture I took of Malia and her sister back when Scott and I crept around the Tate house, and it's when Lydia points out that Malia's younger sister is the one holding the doll that everything crashes into place.

"It's the doll," I say excitedly, and Lydia looks at me like I may have finally lost it for good. "It's…the doll?"

"What about the doll?" Lydia asks.

"It's the doll," I repeat, and I grab Lydia's hand and start to tow her through the woods. I call Scott with my other hand and explain to Lydia at the same time as I talk to Scott's voicemail. "It isn't Malia's doll – it's her younger sister's. She's trying to take it back to the scene of the car crash. It's like taking flowers to a grave. That's all she's trying to do, just take the doll back for her little sister."

As I hang up, Lydia calls out my name, fear plain in her voice. I turn slowly to see Lydia's perfectly booted foot standing on the trigger plate of a bear trap. I scramble over to her, skidding to my knees in the dirt next to the trap.

"Stiles, look for the warning label," she says, visibly trying not to shake or cry. "On the bottom."

"Why the hell would they put instructions on the bottom of a trap?" I grumble.

"Because animals can't read!" Lydia snaps. Glad to see she hasn't lost her temper.

I clear some leaves away and press my shoulder into the ground. It doesn't take long to locate the bright red label, but the letters swim themselves out of order and I'm almost one hundred percent sure that there are no words in the English language that start with three T's in a row. My heart starts pounding in my chest – I'm going to be the reason Lydia Martin loses a perfect, ivory-skinned leg.

"Lydia, we've got a problem," I say, slowly looking up at her. "I can't read, either."

She looks down at me, tears shining brightly in her eyes. "You don't need the instructions," she says, her voice starting to pitch into hysteria. "When is the last time you ever used the instructions, am I right? You don't need them, because you are too smart to waste your time with them, okay? You can figure it out. Stiles, you're the one who always figures it out. So you can do it. Figure. It. Out."

Some part of me knows that she's just saying this to bolster me up. She's trying to make me feel more confident so that I don't screw this up, and I know it. Lydia Martin is never this nice to anyone. Funny thing is, even when you know you're being manipulated, that doesn't mean it doesn't work on you. The warmth of the compliment – and the fact, really, because I do tend to figure these weird supernatural connections out pretty well – fights through the rising panic and illegible letters.

I settle back to the dirt and push more leaves out of the way, exposing the trap's mechanisms. Really, this is kind of like playing with K'nex or Legos when I was little – one piece triggers another piece triggers another piece triggers pointed metal shearing Lydia's bone in half – ooookay, let's not go down that road.

My fingers settle on a wheel-like knob that looks like it latches to the catch that Lydia's stepped on. I read somewhere once that these plates have adjustable levels of sensitivity – you don't want a rabbit to trigger one when you're trying to catch a bear. So if I can change the sensitivity so it'll only respond to something heavier than 110 pounds of feisty banshee, she should be okay. Right?

"Okay," I breathe, making eye contact with her one last time. "Okay, here we go. Ready?"

I don't give her time to respond – I just twist the knob as far as I can with one turn of my wrist, grab Lydia's arm and throw myself sideways to drag her off the plate, and she falls into my arms as the trap snaps shut on empty air.

Later, we catch each other up on our individual adventures while Malia showers and gets dressed at the Sheriff's station. We all heard Scott's Alpha roar, and the fact that Malia's a teenage girl taking a shower as opposed to a dead coyote is tribute to the fact that he's managed to shut the door in his mind. Isaac, all healed from his own run-in with a trap, sings Allison's praises, and the knocked-out Tate recovering at his home proves that she, too, has shut her door. Lydia tells everyone that I'm all fixed, too, but I'm not sure. Yeah, I was able to get her leg out of the trap, but I didn't actually overcome my issue.

Scott couldn't transform, but he did to help Malia – and he's not seeing shadows of himself with claws and fangs anymore. Allison couldn't keep her hands steady, but she did to take down Tate – and she's not seeing her dead aunt anymore, either.

Me? I couldn't read, and I still can't. Out in the woods, I was able to figure out a way around it to save Lydia, but I still couldn't actually make the letters act like letters. And I'm still not completely convinced that I'm awake.

When everyone else has gone home, I go with my dad to return Malia to her father. I watch them hug, crying happy tears, and catch sight of my own reflection in the side mirror, right above the "Objects in mirror are closer than they appear" warning.

I jump in my seat, waiting for the letters to swim out of order, but they don't. They stay firmly in place, plain English, easy to read, easy to understand. I let out a huge sigh and smile maybe the first real smile I've had in a week.

"What up, buddy?" My dad says, climbing back into the car. "You look…happy."

I grin at him. I haven't explained the whole door-open-in-mind fiasco to him, but maybe now I won't have to. "Nothing. I am happy. It's just…it's nice to have a happy ending for once, you know? To help put a family back together."

He gives a little smile, too. "I know what you mean. We get to put a tally in the Win column tonight, and we've been doing an awful lot of losing lately."

He shifts the car into gear and we rumble towards home.

"It feels like things might be turning around," I say quietly, after a few quiet minutes. "After everything that happened with Ms. Blake and Deucalion and the Nemeton…I really didn't think that we'd all be okay."

"But we are," my dad says clearly. "Everyone's got some baggage to carry after a mess like that, but we're okay."

"Boyd died. And Erica."

My dad turns into our driveway and kills the engine. "I know, son, and that's a damn shame. But we're still here. And we will keep on still being here, and that's a tally in the Win column, too. Now come on inside, I'm starving. Let's order a pizza."

"Veggie pizza only! And salad first!" I shout out the window at his retreating back, struggling to free my backpack from where one of the straps is tangled around a cupholder. "What the hell is…"

My voice trails off as I wrap my hand tighter around the backpack, only to realize that something's not quite right with my hand. I carefully extricate the bag and my arm and twist back around to the front seat, holding my left hand up so that the porch light illuminates it from behind.

"One. Two. Three. Four." I gulp a huge breath of air, blood starting to rush to my head. "Five. Six."

I wake up.