Nobody would miss the girl. She didn't have a family, she had no friends, her life had been twisted and trampled, and, most importantly:
She didn't exist.

The girl lies, face down, in the damp alley.
Her head is turned to the side, her cheek pressed into the filth and gravel. Her eyes, red-hot, flick back and forth under their lids.
She shivers, her skeletal limbs splayed at odd angles, her only clothing a stained, skimpy dress. She does not sleep, but does not wake.

It seems that the girl is destined to meet a meaningless, painful, and unsatisfying death, one reflective of her similarly pitiful existence. The disease, the paralyzing fever, is not uncommon. It is easily survived, should one have access to food and clean water. But the girl does not. She has nothing. She has not even her own body, which she sells to strangers in order to scrape together the bare sustenance of her wretched life.

A shadow rolls over her. A pair of hands grip her shoulders. She loses consciousness as she is hoisted off of the pavement and stolen away.

The only trace she leaves is a spot of foamy spittle on the ground.