The little girl didn't like the man on the scooter.
He passed by their house every day on his way to work (wherever THAT was), occasionally glancing over at her Papa seated outside, but the little girl didn't like him.
There was something feral about him. Something scary. Papa would read her books about monsters and without a second's pause he would be in his head, black eyes and squinched face something of a bad memory.
He tried smiling, once, when she was out with her Papa.
She could've sworn she saw fangs.
Word came around that a man fell out from a third-story window and died.
Papa would tell her it was the man on the scooter.
...she never told him how strangely relieved she was.