Crackle drags the sizzling tray of pork from the stove and slams it on the round table. Crack. Crack. The fat pops and crackles.
She kicks the cottage door wide open and lights two fat candles. "Scary? NOT anymore!" she stamps. The night wind howls under the door.
Thump. Thump. Thump. Small paws on the cobblestones. Two shadow-ears creep under the door, and a wet nose bumps the gap.
Crackle holds her spoon up, still and quiet. From the dark doorway, a tiny voice whispers: "…hello?"
Crackle pulls out the second chair. The tiny wolf tiptoes to the table and sits. "Here," she says, tearing a roll. "And here," he says, tearing his.
Both reach for the last piece of pork. Their noses bump. The pork wobbles, teeters, and plops right onto the floor.
They just stare. Then the tiny wolf's mouth opens wide — not a growl, but a big, snorty, snuffy GUAFFAW. Both pounce!
Two empty plates sit in the middle of the round table. The candles gutter low, and the open door lets in the soft hum of the sleepy village.
