Black Water ↠ Stiles Stilinski [Teen Wolf, Vol. One]

Where The Wild Things Are

Disclaimer: 'Teen Wolf' isn't mine. Shocking, right? But it's true. If there are any similarities in content or dialogue, it has probably originated with the show.

Eeeeeek, I'm actually super-proud of some of the prose in this one!

Chapter 27 - Where The Wild Things Are

Charlie prided herself on being a good driver. This was at least partially born of necessity. The Charlie who first climbed behind a wheel was a fourteen year old resident Florence, Oregon. Despite a burgeoning population of just over 8,000 people and such thriving economic mainstays as 'logging' and 'retirement', Florence boasted neither cosmopolitan city planning nor a reliable public transportation system. As such even the most basic of errands required car theft—or, as she like to call it, 'temporary vehicle reallocation'—namely of her dad's Range Rover or next door neighbor Mrs. Erland's pre-owned Suzuki Verona. Now, this caused Charlie no great moral quandary. She found herself prone to mischief and general delinquency at any and all stages of her life. What they don't tell you about delinquency, though, is that to achieve any manner of success it has to be pursued with care. Young Charlie had spent many a night with the drivers' license handbooks of Oregon, California, North Carolina, and any other states she would likely call home. After all, regardless of where she lived, she'd need to keep the fridge stocked if her dad was stuck at work.

The Charlie of today rattled down a poorly paved Beacon Hills road, her hands poised at a perfect ten-and-two on the steering wheel. The full-fledged drivers' license in her wallet had loosened her consideration of speed limits, but otherwise her attitudes vis-a-vis vehicular safety had remained very much the same. The car surrounding her was every bit as prepared as she. A spare tire occupied its place in one corner of her trunk. Opposite it sat a set of snow chains, a remnant of her time in Oregon. Next to them was tucked a tightly packed sleeping bag. Jumper cables were zipped away in their rough canvas container while the jack clattered loosely, every so often clanging against a metal spot where some of the carpeting had peeled back. There was a time Charlie thought her Impala was prepared for anything. That it could heroically zip its way through a zombie apocalypse with minimal difficulty. But then again she had thought that about herself as well. But here she was, apocalypse free, and already out of her depth.

The jangling strains of "Don't You Want Me" interrupted the tired scrape of rubber over gravel. Normally she would let the call go to voicemail, or maybe pull off to the road's shoulder if she thought it was urgent. But today she found herself that hypothetical shark—if she stopped moving she'd die. Or at the very least lose her nerve. Charlie's right hand abandoned its post at the 'two' and grappled among the now-empty plastic bags from Ace Hardware. Once it found the phone, her thumb hit the 'send' button and she pressed it to her ear.

"Hey," Donald declared before she could get a word out. "Sorry—I was at soccer practice. I got your texts. Don't freak out."

"Too late for that," Charlie laughed, surprised that she even could laugh. Donald's voice was a relief. Whether he was panicked or sad or joking or concerned, his voice was always constant. Warm. Steady. Like the rivers that carved out the Grand Canyon. It felt like a grounding force. Something outside her own head to remind her that her thoughts didn't make up a full reality.

"Yeah, well stop it," Donald commanded—water passing over stone, steadfast, unwavering. "As your friend and certified life coach who's wiser and better than you at literally everything, I'm telling you to stop it. Now." He waited a beat. "Have you stopped yet?"

"Yes," Charlie drawled. "My emotions have the same mechanics as a release valve."

"Good."