The Last Warm Thing

The alarm clock's scream became background noise to the zombie shuffling through her morning routine. Sarah hadn't felt alive since the layoff announcements—her whole department, gutted like a fish on a cutting board. Three months of unemployment emails, fruitless interviews, and the creeping realization that at forty-two, she might be permanently obsolete.

Her rescue bear—the stuffed toy David won her at a carnival on their first date—sat on the dresser. Stained and flattened from years of being clutched during panic attacks, its glass eyes seemed to judge her. David's side of the bed remained cold. He'd left six months ago, unable to bear the weight of her depression any longer. His departure note mentioned her hair, how it had lost its luster along with her spirit, as if vanity were the problem.

Barnaby, their aging golden retriever, nudged her thigh with his wet nose. He was the only being who still needed her, the only creature who didn't find her brokenness contagious. His hip dysplasia meant he couldn't manage stairs anymore, so she'd moved her mattress to the living room, creating a strange camp of shame and dog hair.

Today's interview had been with a twenty-four-year-old hiring manager who called her "ma'am." The corporate zombie act had been perfect—smiling, nodding, pretending her thirty years of experience mattered in an economy that treated humans like disposable software updates. But the real horror wasn't being rejected again. It was realizing she didn't want the job anyway.

She'd drive up to the mountains tomorrow. Just her, Barnaby, and the empty passenger seat. A real bear encounter in the wild felt more honest than this zombie existence. Anything was better than being dead while still breathing.

Barnaby sighed, resting his chin on her knee. She buried her fingers in his thick, graying fur and finally cried. The tears were hot and real, the first living thing in months.