You run toward the gated entrance to the forest, not far ahead. Surely the wolf won’t chase you into the well-lit street.
“What do you fear?” the wolf says behind you. Right behind you. Like, in your ear. He’s quick.
Panting to catch your breath, you turn and look into his yellow eyes. Grandmother would not be afraid, and it angers you that you’re being a chicken. Besides, you think of the news reports. Maybe this is one of those good wolves. “I’m not afraid,” you say.
The wolf’s lips stretch back into a wide, toothy grin. “Of course,” he purrs. “But you should be afraid. This park is full of bad wolves. We good wolves can only do so much to protect people. You shouldn’t be here alone.”
“You’re a good wolf?” you ask, your voice trembling.
“Child,” the wolf says, “if I were a big bad wolf, would you not be eaten up by now?”
He makes a good point. But still, something about this wolf makes the hairs on your arm stand up. You pull up your hood and say, “Well, I better go.”
“Better come with me,” he says. “I’ll keep you safe … from the bad wolves.”