Hector the Pig surveys the scene with stolid pragmatism. He checks the wolf’s pulse, then expertly hoists it onto his broad back. The pig’s eyes are calm, calculating, as he trudges toward his cottage, each step deliberate and unhurried. The wolf’s limp paw dangles, brushing the autumn detritus.

Mabel[/@ch_2], already slicing carrots with brisk, rhythmic movements.] Mabel pauses only to sharpen her blade, then resumes chopping with mechanical precision. Hector unrolls a razor, sets to shaving the wolf’s fur in clean, efficient strokes. Clumps of gray fur drop onto the linoleum, swirling around his hooves. The couple’s voices are low and measured, their faces impassive. "He’ll fit in the oven if we trim the haunches." "I’ll peel extra potatoes. The little ones always want seconds." "Good. Let’s not waste anything."

The wolf’s fur is gone, revealing pale flesh, slick with oil and herbs. Hector places a single, glossy apple in the wolf’s slack mouth, pushing it in with precise force. Mabel wipes her hands, then sets the roasting pan with practiced ease. The couple stands side by side, their faces unreadable as they inspect their handiwork. "Nice color. Should crisp up well." "If it doesn’t, we’ll broil the last ten minutes."

The piglets crowd the table, peering at the wolf in awe. Their tiny hooves tap excitedly on the linoleum. One piglet points at the apple, giggling. The others chant, their voices bubbling with innocent glee. "Roast wolf for dinner!" "Can I have the apple?" "Will there be gravy?"

The kitchen returns to its usual calm. Mabel wipes the counter, Hector sets the timer, and the piglets bounce in anticipation. Outside, the wind picks up, but inside, the normalcy is unsettling, their deadpan routine masking the grotesque feast. "Dinner in an hour. Wash your hooves."