A hand emerged from the darkness and placed a steaming mug—Greg's favorite mug—on the table.
"Drink."
"What is this?" Greg demanded, starting to rise from his chair. "You can't—"
He'd barely moved
...
[+]
to jump through our chaste window,
carry us over the midnight snow
under a far moon?
Dare we—at this stage in the old game—dare
to feel the galloping charge
of hot breath, rough hair?
Outside our window the dreamwolf passes,
hungry, unconcerned with us.