Fox's Glade saying fuck your name

Two things bring him back to the Glade.
Foolishly, secretly, the memory of Evien stirs in his muddled head. The second thing is the sound of a fox dying loudly. (He wasn't sure it was possible for a fox to die quietly.)
The Glade might be a drop-off for young men with questionable families. Fox was for lunch today. He approaches, cagey and seemingly nervous. The sound of ripping flesh is thick and wet and almost funny, because it was such a beautiful day.
Smells terrible but tastes decent, yeah? Dermis, epidermis, hypodermis, muscle, fat, bone. The sight of it in one viscous red smear against the grass— he tilts his head, as if asking another question.