The Last Good Boy

Marcus stood at the edge of the padel court, racket hanging loose at his side, watching the rubber ball bounce against the glass wall with hollow thuds. The corporate retreat had been Sarah's idea—something about team bonding, about breaking down the silos that had turned their department into a collection of walking dead.

He caught his reflection in the court's glass wall: eyes glazed, skin grayish from three months of fifteen-hour days, the fluorescent lighting of the office having leeched the color from everything. He'd become what the junior developers jokingly called a zombie—someone who kept moving forward without really being alive, feeding on caffeine and dwindling hope.

"You coming, Marcus?" Sarah called from across the net, her voice bright with that terrifying energy of people who still believed effort equaled results.

He nodded mechanically. His phone buzzed in his pocket. The vet's number.

Buster. His thirteen-year-old Labrador, the one constant through the divorce, through the layoffs, through the gradual erosion of everything he'd once cared about. The dog who'd slept beside him through nights when he'd stared at the ceiling wondering when he'd stopped feeling anything at all.

Marcus walked to the bench, fingers trembling as he answered. The vet's voice was kind, practical, final. He sat down hard, the padel game continuing behind him—the laughter, the competitive grunts, the artificial camaraderie of colleagues who'd forget each other's names within six months.

Buster had been the last thing that made him feel something real. The wet nose pressing against his palm at 6 AM. The unconditional enthusiasm when he came home, even when he'd forgotten to live. The dog had loved him even when he'd forgotten how to be a person who deserved love.

"Marcus?" Sarah was suddenly beside him, her hand on his shoulder. "You okay?"

He looked up at her, really seeing her for the first time in months. The concern in her eyes was genuine. She wasn't a zombie yet. Neither was he, not completely—not if this hurt this much.

"No," he said, surprised by the rawness in his own voice. "But I think I need to be."

The padel game faded into background noise. Marcus stood up, canceled his meetings for the rest of the day, and headed toward the parking lot. For the first time in months, he was going home to actually be there, even if Buster wouldn't be waiting. It was time to start feeling alive again, before he became something that walked but didn't truly exist.