The Undead Life

Maria came home from the marketing firm at 8 PM, her brain feeling like it had been chewed on by something slow and relentless. Three years of pitching campaigns for products nobody needed had turned her into something resembling a corporate zombie—moving through motions, hollowed out, hungry for something she couldn't name.

Her apartment smelled faintly of the wilted spinach she'd forgotten on the counter two days ago. The sight of it made her stomach turn, which was almost a comfort. At least nausea felt like something.

Barnaby, her elderly golden retriever, thumped his tail against the floor. He'd been waiting since she left that morning. His devotion was the only thing in her life that still felt genuine.

She sank to the floor beside him, burying her face in his warm fur. He smelled of dog and sunlight and unconditional love, three things she hadn't experienced enough of lately.

"At least one of us is still alive," she whispered.

His rough tongue licked her cheek, and she started crying—really crying, for the first time since her mother's funeral six months ago. The grief she'd been carrying around like a heavy coat finally started to loosen.

Her phone buzzed on the counter. Another email from work. Something about a deadline that seemed apocalyptic in the office but now, in her kitchen with Barnaby's solid weight against her, felt absurd.

She stood up, walked over to her phone, and turned it off.

Then she threw away the spinach, called Barnaby to follow her, and together they walked into the night air—two living creatures, hungry and alive.