Sweaty Palms & Second Place

My hair was doing that thing again — that weird flip-out at the ends that made me look like I'd just rolled out of bed. Which I had, but that wasn't the point. Today was the Zombie 5K, and apparently looking like the actual undead was part of the aesthetic.

"You ready to get your brains eaten?" Maya called from downstairs, already in full zombie makeup. She'd spent two hours on the bloody gash across her forehead.

"Ready to lose, you mean," I shot back, checking my reflection one more time. The hair situation wasn't improving.

Our golden retriever, Buster, trotted in and nudged my hand with his wet nose, sensing my nerves. I scratched behind his ears — my palms were already sweating, and I hadn't even tied my shoes yet.

"Chill, Alex," Maya said when I finally came down. "It's just a fun run. There's literally a guy handing out zombie-themed energy gels at mile two."

She didn't get it. She didn't understand that everything felt like a competition when you were constantly ranked, measured, tested. Running was supposed to be my escape, but even that had become another thing to excel at. Another way to prove myself.

The starting line was packed — fake blood, torn clothes, people groaning dramatically. My heart hammered. I adjusted my ponytail for the millionth time.

Then the gun went off.

Something shifted around mile two. Maybe it was the zombie music blasting from speakers. Maybe it was watching Maya, usually so composed, trip over her own feet and nearly faceplant into a "caution: infected area" sign. She laughed so hard she had to stop running.

I stopped with her.

"Your hair's perfect," I said, and she flipped me off with a grin.

By mile three, we were power-walking, sharing an energy gel that tasted like artificial watermelon and regret. We passed a guy in a full zombie groom suit — tie, boutonniere, everything — chugging Gatorade like his afterlife depended on it.

"Race you to the finish," Maya said, already breaking into a run.

"You're on."

We crossed together, hands raised, officially placing 347th and 348th out of five hundred. The medal was cheap plastic, my hair was a disaster, and my palms were still sweating.

But Maya was laughing so hard she could barely breathe, and for the first time in forever, I was too.

"Next year," she said, linking her arm through mine as we walked to the car, "we're doing the Turkey Trot. I'm thinking pilgrim zombies."

"Deal," I said. "But I'm doing your makeup."

Buster greeted us at the door like we'd been gone for years. I ruffled his fur, caught my reflection in the hallway mirror, and didn't even flinch.

Some days, you win. Some days, you survive the zombie apocalypse with your dignity intact and your best friend by your side. Both counted.