THERE USED TO be more of us. I'm certain of this. Not enough to fi l a sports stadium or even a movie theater, but certainly more than what's left today. Truth is, I don't think there's any of us left. Except me. It's what happens when you're a delicacy. When you're craved. You go extinct. Eleven years ago, one was discovered in my school. A kindergarten student, on her fi rst day. She was devoured almost immediately. What was she thinking? Maybe the sudden (and it's always sudden) loneliness at home drove her to school under some misbegotten idea that she'd fi nd companionship. The teacher announced nap time, and the little tyke was left standing alone on the fl oor clutching her teddy bear as her classmates leaped feetfi rst toward the ceiling. At that point, it was over for her. Over. She might as wel have taken out her fake fangs and prostrated herself for the inevitable feasting. Her classmates stared down wide- eyed from above: Hello, what have we here? She started to cry, they tel me, bawl her eyes out. The teacher was the fi rst to get to her. After kindergarten, when you're free and clear of naps, that's when you show up at school. Although you can still get caught by surprise. One time, my swimming coach was so enraged by the team's lethargic per for mance