Bug had two months of school left, and he meant to finish. He kept his grades on a folded index card in his hoodie pocket, next to a black eyeliner pencil. His mom worked nights at the shelter down the block, the one built from scrap wood and hung with faded tarps. She told him a diploma was the one thing nobody could take. Bug believed her. So he showed up every day, black hood up, eyes rimmed dark, and did the work while other kids laughed. He was solving equations by the window when the light changed. The sun went dim, like clouds had swallowed it. Every student went quiet at once. Bug looked up from his paper. A man stood in the doorway who did not belong to any morning. His coat hung to the floor, black outside, dark red within. His skin was white as candle wax. When he smiled, Bug saw the teeth. Behind him waited three more, pale and still. "Class is dismissed," the man said. His voice was soft and pleased. "Forever, I think." The teacher backed into the whiteboard. Kids screamed and shoved for the door. The pale men moved into the crowd, and the screaming got worse. Bug did not run with the others. He grabbed his index card. He grabbed his backpack. He thought of his mom, three blocks away, unaware. The window latch stuck. Bug hit it with his fist until it gave. He threw one leg over the sill. A cold hand closed on his hood and pulled. Bug twisted and swung his backpack. The corner caught the man across the face. It bought half a second. Bug dropped, hit the grass, and rolled. He came up running. He did not stop until he reached the shelter. He shoved through the crooked door, chest burning. His mom stood by a table with a lit candle, arranging donated roses in a jar for the front desk. She dropped the flowers when she saw his face. "They took the school," Bug said. "They're not people. They have teeth." She didn't ask what he meant. That scared him most. She crossed to a shelf and pulled down an old framed picture, a cracked doll with a fixed stare, and turned it face to the wall. Then she looked at him with something like guilt. "I hoped you'd graduate first," she said. "I hoped they'd wait." Outside, the light was dimming again, though it was barely noon. Bug pressed the index card flat against his chest. Two months of school left, and there might not be a school by morning. His mom was already bolting the door and blowing out the candle. She knew these things. She had been waiting for them. And she had never told him why. A vampire apocalypse.