Little Red knows that most people won’t believe a woman when she cries “wolf”, not the first, not the second, not the third time. When a wolf moves in next door, she feels the dread drop into her stomach like a stone into a well and her heart beats out a warning; beware, beware, beware.
She meets the wolf as she returns from work and is digging for her keys, her fingertips coated in crumbs. He comes up behind her and introduces himself. Under the fluorescent lights, his brown eyes flash yellow, and he flashes her a sharp-toothed grin. She meets it with a polite smile - she sees the wilderness in him. His voice is gentle, but in words she hears the echo of a snarl, the howl of the hunt.
Her fingertips finally snag on the keys, and she inserts them, twists the key, bids him goodnight, opens the door a crack and slides in. She turns around, quickly closes it and twists the lock before he can say anything. She doesn’t have a peephole, but she knows that he is still standing outside the door, watching. After a very long moment, she hears him walk away.
She goes to the store to buy an axe. She hears her mother’s voice in her head as she wanders the aisles, looking. “Do not make yourself delicious,” her mother cautions, “wolves love to gobble up little girls like you.” Little Red knows that whether or not she is delicious should not count - she doesn’t deserve to be eaten. She asks a kindly-looking woman where they keep the axes.
“Aisle four,” the lady says. “What do you need it for?”
“A wolf moved in next door,” Little Red replies, and the woman’s eyes turn to flint and she gives a sharp nod. She leads Little Red down aisle four, and together they pick out an axe as sharp as her new friend’s eyes.
That night the wolf returns and knocks three times. Red doesn’t answer, but she picks up the axe and puts it by the door.
“Little Red,” he says in a voice like soft cotton, “Little Red, let me come in.”
She is prepared this time, but maybe not the next, so she opens the door a little. “Yes?” she asks. His hand snakes in, grabs her wrist so hard that it bruises like a half-rotted apple. He pushes open the door with his shoulder, and she shouts, and his other hand goes to cover her mouth. She reaches for the axe then, still screaming. She hits him once, twice. Three is the magic number is always the magic number, and he goes down.
Later, she is wrapped in an ambulance blanket, arm in a sling, as the police wait to question her. An officer is talking to the superintendent, who doesn’t quite believe that the wolf attacked unprovoked. “He seemed like such a nice guy,” he protests loudly.
She stares at the ground and lets the tears slip down her face.
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