In that split second following the truck’s acceleration, Stiles entertains a fanciful vision in his mind’s eye: He, heroic and grim, vaulting into the air to somersault onto the hood of the truck. If he had werewolfy-strength, maybe he could follow the gymnastics up with something cool, like shattering the windshield with his fist. Then he would deck this guy, thrown on the emergency brake, and watch the dude brain himself on the steering wheel. All without a scratch coming to his bicycle.

The reality leaves much to be desired. Abandoning the bike with animalistic survival instincts, he scrambles away from the street and up onto the sidewalk. He even slides behind a sturdy-looking street lamp to watch in disbelieving horror. HIS BIKE…you monster.