Amy and Jason kiss, on his black sheets; the sun and rain come together, pouring down on them in bed; he feels it on his lips; she jumps on the mattress, like an earthquake; they run out, through the walls that no longer exist, into a lovely green field, and in the dining room, the candles are still burning on the table -- because they are idiot druggies -- when the Killer enters -- he walks slowly through Jason's house as they dance, in the rain and the sun, him in his underwear and her in a simple white shift, playing love games, zooming through the lush grass and the warm rain and a thousand rainbows, and the Killer enters their bedroom, crushing the V vial and stopping short; he watches them on the bed, holding hands across the sheets as they sleep; they cheer, and play like children, rolling in the grass, laughing at the wide-open sunshine; he puts her on his shoulders and runs through rainbows, driven by love in this house and this bed and in the infinite unfurling of the beauty and the light within them both, and the Killer removes his belt as Jason kisses her in the rain, and their love is a song as loud as the world, and the Killer loops the belt around her neck, and she strangles as Jason kisses her, in the sun and rain, and he tosses her into the air, because they can fly, and she rises on the breeze in the sun and the rain and he falls to the ground, laughing, with the sun on his skin. And then she's gone.

It was the best one yet. He rolls over with a face lit up like Christmas, joyful and grinning and tired. She's slower coming out of it; he looks down at her full of love and shouts, "Earthquake!" bouncing on his knees. She doesn't wake, and he pulls her toward him on the bed, neck and arms limp and sprawling. He leans in to kiss her awake, like a prince in a story, but she's gone. The welts around her neck: Maudette, Dawn. Grief, and behind that fear, and then an old guilt coming back again. "No, hey." He listens for her breath, but she's cold. He chokes on it. "No. God. No, please. Please." He strokes her hair, and kisses her cold lips; he picks up the phone and dials, looking to her for bravery. It is the bravest thing he's ever done, and the dumbest. He's numb to Rosie's happy shout, on the other end of the 911 dispatch line, and asks for them to come.

Jessica stares out at Fangtasia! from Eric's office, hungrily. Eric is amused, asking WTF Bill wants from him. "I wanna go to the bar," she declares, in wonderment. "I wanna be one of those dancers. I'm hungry..." Bill whines to Eric that she won't listen; he's worried about Sookie even though he knows she's all right, and doesn't have time to -- yikes -- teach Jessica obedience. "I don't obey anybody," she says, firmly and with conviction, not a whine at all but a woman being born. "Those days are over." Eric needles him about his lack of control, tapping his shoulder: "Man up, my friend. She's not even one night old." He asks Jessica if she doesn't want to stay with her Maker, like Pam, and her answer is immediate and heartfelt: "No. He's a dick." She takes note of Eric's hotness and, because she was raised to go for Vampire Guy, to head straight for the most powerful man in the world, supplicant and coquettish, asks to sit in his lap. Maybe the most troubling line in the entire episode.