[Scott clicks on his feed and, because he is really terrible at hiding how he feels unless he's really concentrating on it, it's clear that he's pretty unsettled.]

Hey so, um--

[He bites his lip, runs the palms of his hands over his knees.] Lydia's gone, and Stiles is [his throat tightens for just a second, the briefest pause and then he forces himself on--] out cold. He's in his room, but um. I've got the key, so if anyone wants to see him, just. Let me know.

[Scott is bad about locking his own door: being reachable for an emergency is more important than his own safety, in his mind, but while he doesn't mind running a little risk in his own life if the benefits are worth it, he isn't about to play that gamble with Stiles.

Dropping his chin to his chest, Scott scrubs the back of his head with his free hand. There's been so much going on lately, so much he feels like he should be weighing in on that he's kept silent about.]

I, um...I think, lately, there's been alotof...[His eyelids droop as he talks, and his words start slurring together as he mumbles. Then he's out cold, too, toppling forward to lay, somehow, with his face on the floor and his knees caught on the edge of his bed. A very worried Alaskan malamute comes to investigate, and the camera keeps recording with a ton of white fur obscuring half the feed.

A short time later, maybe fifteen, twenty minutes, the mass of fur moves and Fluffy starts whining. Clementine comes into view, and her sigh is audible as the dog dances around her feet, licking at her face when she reaches down to kill the feed.]