The Last Match

The zombie arrived at padel practice ten minutes late, which was impressive given his decomposition rate. Three weeks ago, Carlos had been club champion—fast, aggressive. Now he moved with stiff, jerky motions, neural connections fraying.

"The hair is the first to go," the doctor had said. "Then motor control. Then memory. Then everything."

I served. Carlos lunged too late. The ball struck the back glass with a hollow sound.

We kept playing because neither knew what else to do. The club was empty this time of night. Palm trees beyond the court cast long shadows.

"You remember Elena?" Carlos asked suddenly. "The one with the—"

"Red hair. Yes."

"I was going to ask her to marry me. Before the diagnosis."

Prion disease. One in a million. Incurable.

"My mother kept goldfish," he continued, gaze fixed beyond the lights. "Said they were peaceful. I think she just liked watching things that couldn't escape."

He walked to the net, dragging one foot. Opened his palm—gray skin, fingers curled, trembling.

"Fortune teller told me I'd live to eighty. Read my palm in Miami. Said long life line." He laughed, dry and rattling. "Fifteen dollars worth of bullshit."

He dropped his racquet. It clattered against the court.

"I'm tired, Javier."

"I know."

"I mean—I'm done. No more pretending this is just a setback."

He looked at me, and for the first time since the diagnosis, I saw something human instead of glassy distance.

"Help me end it."

The words hung in the humid air.

I stood frozen. Carlos—who never surrendered a match—asking for the one thing I couldn't give.

"I can't."

"Because it's illegal?"

"Because you're my friend."

He nodded slowly. "Right. Friends."

We left without speaking. We played again the following Tuesday. And the Tuesday after. We kept playing until he couldn't hold the racquet, until the zombie of his disease consumed him entirely.

The last time I saw him, his hair was gone, hands curled, mouth slack. But when I walked into his room, his eyes followed me—tracking, aware, somehow still Carlos beneath the ruin.

"Match point," he whispered.

And even though he couldn't grip a racquet, couldn't stand, couldn't remember his own daughter's name, I raised my palm in a silent salute.

Because some matches you don't win. Some matches you just refuse to lose.