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Alea iacta est. The die is cast.
I’d kill him, thinks Morris—who is now (in his own mind, at least) Morris the Wolf.
Because an old wolf is a crafty wolf, and that’s what I have to be now: crafty.
this is the day he becomes a wolf for real.
That could be my old pal’s epitaph, Morris thinks. Here lies Andrew Halliday, a fat, stupid, shortsighted homo. He will not be missed.

