Prima, she said to me, if you see a man with dilated pupils, a man who smells like mildew, a man with fingernails that are stained yellow and teeth that are uneven and broken, prima, if you see that man--run. Run! Because that man is a pinche werewolf.

For a moment there was only silence. The old man wondered if the servitor had died of hunger. Then it crawled out of shadow, its head swiveling left and right with a high, hurtful screech of metal on metal. Sensors and little pincers dangled out of its too-wide-open mouth.