The Friday Night Apocalypse

The house already smelled like stale chips and desperation when Maya got there. Not the cool kind of desperation either—the kind that comes from seven people stuck in the same suburban basement since sixth grade, desperately trying to pretend they hadn't all become different people.

"You came!" Jason yelled, like she hadn't walked through his front door every Friday for three years. The house lights flickered—someone's little brother messing with the circuit breaker again—and in that split second of darkness, Maya saw it: the zombie makeup she'd spent forty-five minutes applying had completely separated from her skin. Fantastic. Now she looked like a shedding reptile instead of an apocalypse survivor.

"Bro, your dog is officially a zombie now," Becca announced from the corner.

Maya turned. Buster, Jason's ancient golden retriever, lay motionless on the rug. His usual enthusiastic tail-thump greeting was conspicuously absent.

"He's not dead," Jason said quickly, way too quickly. "He's just... really chill tonight."

"He's been like that since we got here," Lucas pointedted, helpful as ever. "We thought you'd know what to do. You're, like, the dog person."

Maya knelt beside Buster. His breathing was shallow, his nose dry and warm to the touch. The panic rose in her throat sharp and sudden. This wasn't some joke. This wasn't Snapchat dramatics.

"He needs water," she said, already moving toward the kitchen. "And space. Everyone back up."

"He's literally fine," Jason called after her, but she heard the tremor in his voice. He knew. They all knew.

The kitchen was empty and quiet, the lights humming overhead. As Maya filled a bowl with water, her phone buzzed in her pocket. The group chat exploding with theories, with panic, with *we should call someone* and *it's probably nothing* and *are you crying rn?* from Becca.

She wasn't crying. She was sixteen, and she knew that dogs got old. She knew that people grew apart and that basements felt smaller every year and that sometimes things just... ended.

But when she returned with the water bowl and Buster lapped at it weakly, his tail giving one tiny thump against the floor, she felt something unlock in her chest. The ridiculous zombie makeup, the friends who didn't really know her anymore, the night that wasn't going according to plan—it all mattered less than this: a living creature drinking water, the sound of relieved laughter from the doorway, the sudden certainty that some things were still fixable.

"He's okay," Maya said, and for the first time all night, she meant it.

"Yeah," Jason said softly. "Thanks."

The group chat kept buzzing. But for now, that could wait.