"Extraordinary," the doctor says as he studies the young couple across from him: a bright-eyed man and a wild-haired woman. In her lap, the woman cuddles a slobbering infant.

"Is there a cure?" the young man asks. "There must be a treatment."

The doctor scans his notes before replying, "To be honest, I was under the impression that a person could not develop clinical lycanthropy until her reason centers matured. In other words, infants cannot have clinical lycanthropy."

"It's not clinical lycanthropy," the woman insists. "Every full moon, our daughter turns into a wolf puppy; teeth and fur and all."

"She's got to be the cutest little werewolf ever," the man adds, "but she's starting to cut her first teeth and, well, this could get dangerous if we don't do something right now."
This, the doctor realizes, must be handled delicately. He is a pediatrician, not a psychiatrist, but he knows unbalanced when it sits down in his office. "Mr. and Mrs. Aglesford, I am afraid that both of you are suffering from some form of stress-induced delusion. I've seen it before in new parents. I must require that the two of you seek assistance before your stress causes, well, to be frank, tragic results."

"But, Doctor," the woman begins, unconsciously holding the child closer to her chest, "you don't understand -."

"Mrs. Aglesford! Listen to what you and your husband are saying! Your child cannot possibly become a werewolf! There is no such thing! They're the product of superstitious medieval peasants and teenagers with deviant tastes. I thought at first she might have clinical lycanthropy, but that is a mental disorder where the subject believes herself to be transforming into a wolf." He softens his tone and continues, "Please, I want to help you both. You're good people and you want to be good parents and God knows the world needs more of those. Tell you what, we will schedule a time for you next week to come to this office and meet with a colleague of mine. Dr. Schaeffer is a very talented psychiatrist. I know that she'll be able to help the two of you."

Silence for a moment and then Mrs. Aglesford says, "The only day we're free is Thursday evening. Will that be a problem?"

"We will be here at six o'clock."

That is settled then. The couple leaves the office and goes out to the car where the woman buckles the infant into the car seat, frustration burning her eyes.

"He's going to have them take Emma," she says to her husband. "If he wasn't, why wouldn't he just schedule an appointment for us and the psychiatrist? Why does he have to be there?"

"Maybe we can just say we were tired and now we're feeling better?" The man hears the idiocy in his idea, but he must hold his little family together. He wanted to cure his daughter, not have her taken from them. All he can do now is trust his wife and wait for Thursday.

Thursday. The pediatrician and the psychiatrist are both waiting when the Aglesfords arrive.

"Good evening," Dr. Schaeffer says. She gives a look of veiled distaste to Mr. Aglesford. "Why are you wearing welding gloves?"

"They're not. They're cat gloves, like what animal control wears," he corrects. In his arms, Emma wriggles and tries to nibble at his face. He laughs and holds her away. "Now now, you know you shouldn't bite Daddy," he scolds.

"Why would you need those?" The psychiatrist's voice is that trained, gentle calm so necessary in her profession.

He answers, "Tonight's a full moon. In fact, moonrise should happen in five minutes."

Already the infant is squirming more urgently. She scratches at herself with tiny fingernails and begins to whimper.

"Oh, it's all right," the young mother soothes. "Mommy and Daddy are right here with you, Sweetie."

"Listen," the pediatrician begins, "I must protest. I mean, she sounds like she's in agony."

"She is," the wild-haired woman replies. "But she won't always be. It only hurts when they're young."

"What do you mean?" Dr. Schaeffer asks but then the infant's wails reach a crescendo and the young father holds her tighter, still whispering to her. Tufts of fur, soft and short, sprout along her arms.

"Her face! What is happening to her face?" shouts the pediatrician as he leaps from his chair.

Already Emma's nose is lengthening. Her fingers have fused into tiny paws with delicate little pink footpads. She takes her father's gloved finger into her mouth and begins a furious gnawing.

"This is . . . I don't even know," Dr. Schaeffer stammers. "Do you realize the scientific implications?"

"No," the young man says. "She's my baby girl, not some grad student's PhD project."

"No, no. I want to study her case myself. And don't say that you won't let me. All I have to do is claim you two are delusional and a threat to her safety. I can take her from you, or you can work with me. That is your choice."

"You left out one other choice," Mrs. Aglesford says, her smile thin over pointed teeth.

"What other choice?" asks the psychiatrist.

"The one where the mother wolf fights to the death for her pup."

The young woman springs, her features shifting. By the time she reaches Dr. Schaeffer, it is a wolf muzzle that bites down on the psychiatrist's throat. Ears pinned, eyes half-closed, Mrs. Aglesford does not let go until the end. Then she stands up and looks over at the cowering pediatrician.

"All we wanted," she says, "was a cure so our baby could be normal."

As the doctor presses himself into the wall as though begging the building to swallow him, the woman slips her furry arm around her husband's waist. "Come on," she says. "They'd have probably just put her on medication anyhow."