Air Enough to Breathe

The orderlies always fed him and Peter twice a day, every day.

So far, Stiles and Peter had eaten sixty-seven meals.

That meant thirty-three and a half days-to the whiskey-eyed teen's knowledge, unless days had somehow been lost-they had been trapped here: no visitors, no doctors to see them, no signs or indications that the pack intended on rescuing Stiles and his current roommate. Just white walls to surround them both, the steady, constant heat of Peter curled against his back, and the vicious, knowing eyes of each of the orderlies as they dropped off the bidaily meals.

The miasma that bled and leeched into every inch of Eichen House pressed down upon the teen and, as each day passed, Stiles found that it was getting harder and harder to breathe.