Alana makes a frankly uninspired stir-fry out of the leftovers in the fridge, eats it in front of the TV — something she never allows when Grace is home — and knocks back a glass of wine. The wild life of a single mom.

She’d prefer to go to bed when she finishes watching Netflix, but Rocky is losing his mind. Grace wanted a puppy for Christmas when she was five, and Peter got her the tiny, growly, hideously ugly Chihuahua, knowing full well that Alana would have to take care of the little beast. Grace loves him beyond all reason sometimes and cannot stand him at other times. Alana figures this is good training for every other relationship she’ll have in her life.

She puts the dog into his tiny harness and attaches his leash, and they head out into the night. There are coyotes that come down from the hills, and they snack on cats and small dogs. And occasionally there are men who wait for women and children to walk alone on the paths.

Alana never worries for herself. She might not be what she once was, but she’s still more than a match for any predator, animal or human.

Which is why she takes the footpath leading into the hills behind their cul-de-sac. The path turns into a hiking trail. Maybe it was that look at Candace’s stomach, but she feels like she needs a little exercise. Rocky whines. Alana drags him along.

They’ve taken the first turn around the hill when Rocky stops and will not move any further. She pulls him easily, because he’s, like, five pounds, but he puts his paws down and tries to lock himself in place.

“What is it? Why are you being such a spaz?”

Then she hears the growls.

She spins on the balls of her feet, instantly at full attention, old reflexes coming online as if no time has passed at all. She expects to see coyotes.

They’re not coyotes. Not anymore.

They still have the basic shape, but there is something else in them now. There are three of them, blocking the hiking trail, their fur up in ridges along their backs. The biggest one stands a few feet in front of the other two, his eyes gleaming in the dim light of the moon.

It opens its mouth and snarls, and she knows something is deeply wrong. There are too many teeth. They don’t resemble anything canine. They look like needles, long and sharp, crammed into its gums, crowded and packed in at all angles. It seems like the mouth of a different kind of creature, something from a prehistoric sea, horribly out of place and time.

Alana can smell them. They smell like burned meat and dog-stink and hunger and dried blood.