She came to the playground every day. Her eyes were vacant like open windows, and just as lonely. She sat near the swings, limp hair straggling down her back, surrounded by birds of every sort.

Jill's father whispered to Tom's mother, at long last, that the lady whom Jill had reported, over dinner, "talks real pretty to us kids", was "dangerous to them young'uns". Tom's mother agreed. "Horrible, horrible." Pete's dad did too. "Homeless ass."

A week later, no children came.

But she did, of course.

Amidst the snow, she shed her coat, shirt and skin, leaving them about her. Her bare torso was bloodless, covered with scales. Her lipless mouth stretched into a hungry smile.

"Finally," she said, words lost in the whistling wind, and descended on the pigeon nearest to her. She had not eaten in three weeks.

Damn those children.