Blood and bile and brain, on his hands, under his knees, spread over the tile floor, dripping from his chops and his fur. He had lost himself in his meal, let his guard down. He cocked his misshapen head to listen.
For the most part, silence: a lazy evening. Laughter in a house down the street. A small dog barking three blocks down and one block over. Televisions tuned to several different shows. A teenager’s ipod dock blaring behind a locked door.
No sirens, no frightened voices. Gropk went back to eating; he would be safe for some time yet.