Running Past the Dead

Monday morning hit like a freight train, and honestly? I was already running on fumes. Three hours of sleep after binge-watching that new zombie apocalypse show until 3 AM. Not my brightest moment, but honestly, sometimes the undead make more sense than actual people.

"You look like a zombie," my little sister Maya chirped, dumping a pile of spinach onto my plate. "Mom said eat your greens."

"I *am* a zombie," I mumbled, pushing the spinach around with my fork. "Brains. Must eat brains."

Maya rolled her eyes so hard I thought they'd get stuck. "You're so weird, Leo."

"Weird is what I do best." I shoved a spinach leaf in my mouth. It tasted like sadness and health. Both equally terrible.

By 4 PM, I'd had enough. School dragged forever, my friends were obsessed with some drama I couldn't care less about, and I felt like I was underwater. So I did what I always do when life gets too loud — I grabbed my running shoes.

Buster, my ancient golden retriever, perked up immediately. He knew that look. That *we're doing this* look.

"Let's go, buddy."

We hit the trail behind our subdivision, the one that winds through the woods and emerges at the old creek. Buster bounded ahead, his golden fur catching the afternoon light, tail wagging like his life depended on it. Which, let's be real, it kind of did. The dog lived for these runs.

My legs burned after the first mile. Good burn. The kind that makes you feel alive instead of dead inside. The zombie fog started lifting.

Buster stopped abruptly, ears perked, and stared at something in the bushes. A squirrel? Another dog?

"What is it, boy?"

He woofed softly, then turned back to me like, *your turn to figure it out, human.*

That's when it hit me — literally and metaphorically. I wasn't running *from* anything. I was running *toward* something. Maybe just toward feeling like myself again. Toward moments like this, where it's just me, my dog, and the wind in the trees. No expectations. No drama. No pretending to be something I'm not.

Buster nudged my hand with his wet nose, and I laughed. Real laughed, not fake laugh.

"Alright, you philosophical fluffball. Let's run."

We sprinted the rest of the way home, and for the first time in forever, I didn't feel like a zombie at all. Just Leo. Some kid who likes spinach sometimes, runs with his dog, and is maybe — just maybe — figuring it out. One mile at a time.