Bill grinned broadly. He fell to his knees, crooning at the bright-eyed dog. "Pups!" he exulted. "She sure is."
Was scampered into the room, his tail set high. He examined Is with considerable disapproval, then, being a highly sensitive dog, tried to make his getaway. "Oh, no you don't!" yelled Molly, diving for him. She caught him by the hind leg and hauled out her tape measure. Personally Bill commiserated with Was, but, knowing Molly, he gave up, went for the refrigerator, and threw Is a bone with plenty of meat on it.
"Bill!"
Molly was in a nightmare. She screamed Bill's name. He was out of bed in zero time, had her in his arms.
"Honey, what's the matter? You screamed!"
She clutched at him. Her heart was beating rapidly. He could feel it pounding away through her silk nightgown. For a moment all she did was moan, then she relaxed, breathing unevenly.
"What a horrible dream! But—but Bill, it didn't seem like a dream. I dreamed I heard a voice—a skittering, ghastly voice, the voice of an old crotchety man trying to talk fast—like Unk—"
Like Unk.
Bill's throat grew something big in it. Fear. He whispered huskily, "Was it Unk? Are you sure it was a dream?"