There's blood on her teeth when she smiles at you from across the corpse. It's stretched across the middle of the street, guts pulled out, one leg missing. Lumpy pudding dribbles from a crack in its skull.
"Come here often?", she asks.
Her hands are busy, corded muscles tensing on her arms as she pulls its ribs open. You can't see what's inside. There's no blood on her lips or her hands, no hint of color in her bare skin, just those sharp red teeth and those hungry red eyes.
"I'll see you around," she calls as you start to back away, "stay safe, okay? Lots of bad drivers around."
The sidewalk doesn't feel safe.