Exton

Ginny Powers had been socially invisible for two years, one of that class of people we call the homeless. A series of events - some bad luck, some bad decisions - had led to her taking to the streets, to survive hand to mouth. It was an existence she would never leave.

Friday, November 19th, 11:17 P.M. Ginny was walking down an alley in one of the less affluent suburbs of Exton, looking for a place to settle in for the night. Like most towns of any size, Exton has its share of the dispossessed, and safe places were in demand. Seemed there was always someone younger and meaner to roust you out of your nest and seize it for themselves.

From out of the shadows, something grabbed her by the throat, lifted her off her feet and squeezed. She was mercifully unconscious in seconds, her windpipe crushed by the inexorable pressure, and dead a minute later.

This time, though, the attack had not gone unnoticed. Suddenly the alley was full of eyes and the sound of low growls. The killer let Ginny's body slip to the pavement and took to his heels, and though the patrol pursued with sight, sound and scent, he was soon lost amid the twisting and turnings of the city.

Ginny Powers had found her safe place - a place no one would roust her out of, ever; three feet wide, seven feet long, and six lonely feet under.