Leo stood atop the grassy hillside and cupped his hands around his mouth. "Wolf! Wolf!" The village bells rang out below. Women dropped their baskets of apples. Men grabbed pitchforks and sprinted downhill. Leo's laughter rang bright and clear across the pasture.
The next morning, Leo climbed the same hill and shouted again, louder this time. "Wolf!" The same chaos erupted — horses stumbled over fence posts, a goat knocked over a laundry line. On the third shout, Leo's laughter turned to yelp as he tripped over a gnarled oak root and tumbled face-first into the clover.
The villagers arrived breathless and red-faced. The baker's daughter shook her head at him and pointed toward home. Leo sat up slowly, his grass-stained knees, and listened to the pasture settle back into quiet. His smile was gone.
On the third day, Leo sat alone on the hill. The wind moved through the oak branches overhead. Far below, the stone farmhouse sat quiet, its chimney exhaling a thin grey thread of smoke into the still air. He reached for his flute and lifted it to his lips, then lowered it again without playing.
A grey shape slid through the far pasture. Leo saw yellow eyes first, then the low sweep of its body. "Wolf!" he screamed, and his voice cracked mid-way through the word. He pointed. He waved his arms until his shoulders burned.
Below him, shutters stayed closed. A cat crossed the lane and leapt over a stone wall. No one looked up.
The wolf stepped onto the path that wound toward the village. Leo sprinted downhill, stumbling over furrows and cracked earth, his boots skidding on loose gravel. He reached the first cottage and pounded on the door.
'Wolf! It's real!' The woman inside peered through the crack in the timber and pulled the latch shut. Leo stood on the dirt road, his chest heaving, and stared at his empty hands.