The Dog Walker's Guide to the Apocalypse

Marcus's eyes landed on the ancient fedora perched on the thrift store rack. It was hideous—felt that had seen better decades, a band sweating through its last owner's existence. Perfect.

"Dude, you're actually gonna wear that?" Jordan's voice crackled through their Discord call. "To Emily's party?"

"It's got character," Marcus muttered, though his hands trembled as he slid the hat onto his head. It was his armor against the world, a shield against having to actually talk to Emily—the girl who'd sat three rows ahead in homeroom since seventh grade, the one whose laugh sounded like wind chimes in a summer storm.

But first, he had to survive Mrs. Henderson's golden retriever. Barnaby was supposed to be easy—old, slow, practically a furry rug with a pulse. Instead, the dog had transformed into a furry chaos demon the moment Marcus's back was turned, chewing through his phone charger like it was a gourmet snack.

"You look like a zombie from a 1950s B-movie," Jordan said, not unkindly. "It's working for you, honestly."

Marcus stared at himself in the mirror. The hat sat slightly crooked, giving him a rakish, I-don't-care-but-I-care-a-lot vibe. He smoothed his shirt, practiced his smile in the reflection. The zombie comment was perfect—Emily loved zombie movies. She'd mentioned it last week when their groups overlapped at lunch.

Barnaby chose that moment to gallop down the hallway, trailing toilet paper like a superhero cape. Marcus sighed, kneeling to untangle the mess.

"You're supposed to be helping me get ready, not sabotaging me," he told the dog. Barnaby licked his face, leaving a damp stripe across his cheek.

At the party, Marcus clung to the wall, nursing a soda that had gone warm twenty minutes ago. Emily stood across the room, laughing at something Jake Andersen said. Jake, who played lacrosse and had dimples you could lose quarters in. Marcus's hand went to his hat, his grounding anchor.

Then Emily looked up. Her eyes found him through the crowd. She didn't look away.

"Nice hat," she said, suddenly beside him. "Very Edgar Allan Brooks meets contemporary thrift shop chic."

Marcus's brain short-circuited. "Thanks?"

"I'm kidding, it's cool." She stepped closer, lowering her voice. "I've been wanting to talk to you all week. Jordan said you're really into that new zombie show on Netflix?"

The world narrowed to this moment—him, Emily, the stupid hat that somehow worked, and Barnaby waiting at home probably destroying another household item. Marcus took a breath, stood a little taller.

"Yeah," he said, a real smile finding its way onto his face. "Yeah, I am."