. . .

“Let him grow up,” says Mr. Gulley, in sudden desperation. “Let him go to school. I’ve bought a secondary school for him.”

“Maybe,” says the wolf.

“Let me see him grow up,” says Mr. Gulley, pleading, crying into the fur of the wolf, “let me have a son, let him be old enough to forgive me and set me free of guilt, or hate me and make me happy enough to die.”

“Oh, come on,” says the wolf. “Come on. You’re stickying me up with snot. Come on. Gumby. Gumby. Hon. Dear. Child.”

The wolf licks Mr. Gulley’s hair. It sears. It sizzles. Mr. Gulley wails and curls away.

“Fine,” says the wolf. It looks away from him. “No promises. I won’t promise. I won’t ever promise. But fine. I’ll say.

“You’ll get to see him grow.”

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