The Heartwood if she says i got to fix my teeth, then she's so american

"No, you!" Barks Anne tactlessly, taking no care to hide the fear in her voice. Darting her head around in any direction she can, she continues to spin in place frantically. Anne always believed violence to be the most barbaric way of things, and that everything would work a lot more smoothly if everyone was to set their pride aside and talk it out. But at this moment instinctively her fur is raised, though it's not hard to tell that she's more scared than aggressive.

There, just in the corner of her eye as she tosses her head from one shoulder to the other desperately trying to locate the voice's owner, a streak of crimson. With a silent gasp, she stops suddenly and focuses on the color. Making the shape of it, she's able to tell that not too far in the distance, there is a wolf. Or something wolf-like. Such a hue is foreign to her, and that frightens her even more. "You!" She says to the red smear, trying to sound commanding. "What are you? Or who are you?" Her voice cracks. Certainly has the shape of a wolf, but the coat is so surreal, and in this landscape, menacing.