Ingress nods. Purple butterflies flit and flutter off the path. She could follow them, if she wanted.

She doesn't.

"Like Little Red Riding Hood. Don't talk to strangers, don't get eaten by the wolf."

Her free hand holds a knife now, its handle redder than any riding hood could be. The blade is sharper than a wolf's incisor. She knows how to handle her weapons.

"I don't need to wait for the woodsman."