Game Point

Maya hadn't realized she'd become a zombie until the dog's wet nose pressed against her ankle in the parking lot. Three years of corporate litigation had hollowed her out—same grey office, same depositions, same men who interrupted her in meetings. She moved through motions while something vital decayed inside.

"You should come," David had said, thrusting the padel racket into her hands. "It's not tennis. It's... social."

The court was enclosed by glass walls, a transparent cage where thwacking balls echoed like gunshots. Her partner, some senior partner's wife, smiled thinly between serves. The little dog—a golden retriever mix—had wandered in from somewhere, tail sweeping the indoor turf like a metronome.

"That's not allowed," someone said.

But the dog didn't care about rules. It danced between their legs, barking joyfully at every ricochet. Something in Maya's chest cracked open.

She swung harder. The ball caromed off the back wall, the rebound perfect, and she smashed it past her opponent's outstretched arm. For a second, she wasn't thinking about billable hours or the promotion she'd牺牲 everything for. She was just movement and impact and breath.

"Nice shot," the woman said, surprised.

The dog returned the ball in its mouth, tail wagging furiously. Everyone laughed. Maya laughed too, the sound foreign in her throat, and realized with sudden clarity that she hadn't made a sound like that in months. Maybe years.

"One more game?" her opponent asked. "Unless you need to get back..."

Maya looked at her phone—three missed calls from the office. She set it face down on the bench.

"I'm good," she said, and meant it. The zombie sat up, stretched its stiff limbs, and decided, just for tonight, to stay alive.