Six AM Zombie Apocalypse

The alarm on my iPhone blared at 5:45 AM, and I genuinely questioned every life choice that led to this moment. Baseball practice. Before sunrise. When even the sun was like, "nah, not yet." I dragged myself out of bed feeling like a certified member of the walking dead.

My baseball cap sat on the nightstand — this beat-up navy blue thing with a permanently curved brim that I'd worn since freshman year. It was my security blanket, my literal and figurative shield against the world. Pull it low, avoid eye contact, blend into the background. Classic strategy.

"You look like a zombie," my mom commented as I stumbled into the kitchen, reaching for her phone to document my misery. "Please don't put that on Instagram. I have a reputation to maintain."

"What reputation? The kid who once fell asleep in his own taco? That ship has sailed." She smirked, and I grabbed a granola bar, shuffling toward the door before she could activate her mom-paprazzi mode.

The field was deserted when I arrived, except for Maya by the dugout, scrolling through something on her phone. Maya, who'd been in my homeroom since sixth grade. Maya, who I'd successfully said approximately three sentences to, maximum. Maya, who was now standing five feet away from me.

My internal monologue immediately turned into a frantic 911 call to myself. PLAY IT COOL. BE NORMAL. DON'T DO THAT THING WITH YOUR HANDS.

"Hey," she said, looking up. "You too?"

"Yeah. Coach is... enthusiastic about morning practice." I mentally face-palmed. Enthusiastic? Really? That was the word I went with?

She laughed, and it was this genuinely amused sound that made my chest do this weird flutter thing. "That's one way to put it. I'm pretty sure he's actually part vampire."

"Would explain a lot." I adjusted my hat, then realized it made me look nervous and stopped. Then felt awkward for stopping.

Maya stepped closer, and I caught a whiff of vanilla — like, she smelled good, which was unfair because I definitely smelled like lukewarm granola bar and existential dread. "So, I was thinking..."

My heart rate accelerated to concerning levels. "About?"

"About how we should start a resistance. Early morning practice survivor club. We can make matching t-shirts. 'Zombie Baseball Players United.'"

I stared at her for a second, then found myself grinning. "I'd wear that."

"Cool." She pulled out her iPhone. "Give me your number. For, like, coordinating our rebellion. Obviously."

Obviously. The word hung between us like it meant something more. I typed my number into her phone, trying not to overthink every possible implication. She handed it back with this small smile that made me feel like maybe — just maybe — 6 AM baseball practice wasn't going to be so terrible after all.

"See you tomorrow, zombie," she said, heading toward the field.

"See you tomorrow." I adjusted my hat, but this time I didn't pull it quite so low. Some things, I decided, were worth looking up for.