I hear The Wolf at the door. No one else hears him. No one else ever hears anything but the drone of their own stale flesh. I even hear the blood upon his teeth; the sick copper splash of saliva dripping to the floor, claws cruel and jagged, scratching at the door. He knows well enough where I live now. He’s buckled all my weapons, one by one. Why not? Why not just let him in? He grows fatter, stronger - feeding is his call. I am his hunted. He is the hound of Death, and I his unconscious master.