Harold’s werewolf problem had not eased, in fact it was worst. The pair were creeping about each other in a weird dance made more so by the fact that neither Harold nor the werewolf were good dancers. Every time the werewolf lunged, Harold moved. Every time Harold threw something at the werewolf, like you would a stray cat or dog relieving itself on your lawn, the werewolf ducked. The circular motions on the floor were mirrored in the conversation.
“But I don’t want to die,” Harold protested.
“Be a man about it will you. This isn’t usually this hard.
“Nor should it be which is a good indication that I am not your foe or a potential dinner date, but am worthy of living.
“Or you are worthy of dying because I don’t want a man like you roaming about with the ability to avoid me.
“What’s your name by the way,” Harold asked.
“Why?
“Why not? If I’m going to die I might as well the name of my assailant.
“Mary.
“I knew it,” he proclaimed.
“Harold?
“Yes.
“Wow you let yourself go to the dogs didn’t you?
“Well nearly. "