For us, love is a hairy thing, a pup that nestles between the fur and the virtual. Which is to say that everybody needs friends: MrLongFangs is new to Wilmington; young MoonOverBethesda sniffs for a pack; and ShadowLady (actually a man, we’re pretty sure) seeks recruits for an attack on the vampires of Central Jersey. Our messages are like the occasional moon. Change me, change me. Even WolfHunter, who shows up with threats of our annihilation. It’s all talk; without us, he’s just a loser in infrared goggles, looking for some woods to stalk. We play along; the chat turns to growls, all teeth and purpose, and then things go contentedly quiet. (Imagine us in our collective warmth.) Then BrightEyes: Is anyone still on? and it’s less than a minute before the barkback from Furadelphia: Don’t start howling, bushy tail. We’re not going anywhere.

I’m going to write my own procedural drama. Mostly it’ll be the same as the other ones: first, the dead body, discovered by teenagers in an alley, or by the maid in a gilt bedroom, or at the feet of joggers in a gentrifying park. Then the police officers, delivering the sad news, surreptitiously pressing the loved ones, and then other suspects, until it all clarifies. But then the trial, where despite the evidence the careerist defense attorney brings motion after motion, suppressing the crucial facts. All the while we know who did it, and maybe why. We just want it proven publicly, just want the win, want the murderer shut away. And, like the other shows, the main characters will never develop, episode to episode— each time they’ll shake their heads cynically at the body, pursue relentlessly, curse the defense attorney, stoically accept the victory. But then, each time, everyone—the family of the victim, sure, but also the district attorney and the cops—they’ll all go back to the alley, the bed, the park, and there they’ll fall to the ground, wailing helplessly: Still dead! they’ll cry. Still dead! Still dead!