Palm Readings at Dawn

The dead don't always stay buried. Sometimes they get office jobs and mortgages and convince themselves they're alive.

Marcus stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror—gray skin, hollow eyes, the gentle shuffle of a man who'd forgotten how to move with purpose. At 34, he'd become what his therapist called 'high-functioning,' but what he privately thought of as a zombie. Not the flesh-eating kind. The worse kind: the one who watches himself living without ever quite feeling it.

'Tennis?' Sarah had asked three days ago. She'd been his friend since college, since before the marriage and the promotion and the slow fade into mediocrity. 'Actually padel. Saturday morning. Be there.'

He'd almost said no. Zombies don't do weekend activities. But Sarah had that look in her eyes—the one that said she knew things were wrong and wasn't going to let him disappear completely.

Now here he was, standing on a padel court at 8 AM, heart racing like he'd actually woken up for the first time in months. Sarah served, the ball cracking against her racket. They played in silence for twenty minutes, the rhythm of the game doing what conversation couldn't.

Then she stopped mid-serve and walked to the net. 'Marcus.' She reached across the mesh fence, her palm pressing against his. Physical contact—the kind that mattered. 'You're not dead yet.'

Something cracked open in his chest. Later, they found themselves at the beach, fully clothed, walking into the ocean like they'd done a decade ago during finals week. Swimming through saltwater, gasping, alive.

'I don't know who I am anymore,' he admitted, treading water.

Sarah treaded beside him. 'Then we figure it out. Together.'

The zombie, it turned out, could learn to swim.