No one touch it!’ Miss Stine cried. Not that I had plans to. I’d felt the size of it when it had lain out dead; it was as big as a pony. And now, stood up, swaying like a drunk, its presence seemed to fill the room. ‘’Twas better left dead,’ said Mr Cox. ‘Too late for that.’ Mr Walton spoke through gritted teeth. ‘What do we do with it now?’ ‘You can’t put it in that cage again,’ I said, remembering how miserable it had sounded. ‘Can’t you … I don’t know … take it back to where you caught it?’ ‘And release it back into the wild? Don’t be ridiculous,’ Mr Walton snapped. ‘Quiet! All of you! I can’t think for your prattling!’ cried Miss Stine. Her voice – shrill, excitable – made the wolf panic. It leapt from the table, dragging wires and knives with it in a whirlwind of legs, tongue, fur. It knocked me into Miss Stine.
