"Vampirism," Mary says. She emerges from the closet holding a long red dress. It's wrapped in clear plastic from the dry cleaner's.

"Uh," I say, "I hate to be the one to tell you this, Mary. But there's no such thing as vampires. Or vampirism. Or whatever it is."

"Oh yeah?" The ends of Mary's mouth are curled up even more than usual.

"Vampires were just made up by that guy." She's laughing at me. I don't mind, though, because it's Mary. It's better than her ignoring me, which is what she's done for most of the time I've known her. "That guy who wrote Dracula. Right?"

"Bram Stoker did not make up vampires," Mary says, the smile vanishing. "He didn't even make up Dracula. Who's an actual historical figure, by the way."

"Yeah, but a dude who drinks blood and can turn into a bat? Come on."

"Vampires exist, Adam," Mary says quietly. I like how she says my name. I like it so much that I don't even notice at first that she's staring at the photo I'm holding. "And so do their victims."

I follow the direction of her gaze. And nearly drop the photo.

"Mary," I say. Because it's all I can think of to say. "Your… your mom? Is she… did she…"

"She's still alive," Mary says, turning to throw the red dress, in its slippery clear plastic bag, onto the bed. "If you can call it living," she adds, almost to herself.

"Mary…" I say in a different tone of voice. I can't believe it.

And yet I do. There's something in her face that makes it clear she's not lying. Also something that makes me long to wrap her in my arms. Which Veronica would say is sexist. But there you go.

I let go of the lip I've started chewing. "Is that why your dad-"

"He wasn't always like that," she says, not looking at me. "He used to be different, when Mom was here. He… he thinks he can find a chemical cure for it." She sinks onto the bed beside the dress. "He doesn't want to believe that there's only one way to get her back. And that's killing the vampire who made her into one."