The Last Good Game

The fluorescent lights of the office hummed at a frequency only the dead could hear. Sarah moved through her day like a zombie—mouth slightly open, eyes glazed, responding to emails with practiced automaticity. At 34, she had already died three times: once when her mother passed, once when she sold her soul for a senior title, and once when Mark left because she'd forgotten how to be present.

Then came Elena's text: *Padel tonight. Don't make me beg.*

They hadn't spoken since Sarah disappeared into work's maw six months ago. Elena was the friend who pulled you from burning buildings. The one who showed up with wine when you were crying on your bathroom floor. The one who didn't let you rot.

"You look like shit," Elena said, dropping a racket into Sarah's hand. The court smelled like rubber and desperation.

"Feel like it too."

"Good. Hit the ball."

The first serve slammed into the back wall. Sarah's body remembered what her mind had forgotten: the pivot, the swing, the satisfaction of contact. They played in silence at first, the rhythmic *thwack* against glass walls drowning out everything else.

"I'm dead inside," Sarah admitted between points, sweat finally breaking through her numbness.

"You're not dead," Elena said, smashing a winner past her. "You're just been burying yourself alive. There's a difference."

Something cracked open in Sarah's chest. She served again, harder this time. They played for two hours until Sarah's muscles burned, until she was gasping, until sweat dripped into her eyes and she could finally feel something.

"Same time next week?" Elena asked as they sat on the bench, gulping water.

Sarah looked at her friend—really looked at her—and noticed the lines around Elena's eyes, the way she'd stopped dyeing the gray from her temples. They were both getting older, both tired, both somehow still here.

"Only if you promise to kick my ass," Sarah said.

Elena smiled. "That's the zombie I used to know."