The Zombie Dog Walk

I felt like a **zombie**. No, scratch that — zombies at least had an excuse for shuffling through the hallways with zero brain activity. I was voluntarily doing this to myself, surviving on three hours of sleep and an unreasonable amount of vanilla iced coffee.

"You look dead," Maya said, falling into step beside me at my locker. "Like, actually deceased."

"Thanks, bestie. Really boosting the confidence there." I adjusted the beanie I'd been wearing for three consecutive days. It was starting to develop its own ecosystem, but taking it off meant revealing the disaster that was my hair. And my face. And my entire existence.

The **dog** situation wasn't helping.

Okay, context: my neighbor Ms. Henderson had broken her hip, and somehow I'd been voluntold to walk her golden retriever, Buster, every day after school. Buster was essentially a cloud with paws — 80 pounds of pure sunshine who had zero concept of personal space.

"You're still doing that?" Maya asked when I told her I had to bail early. "It's been, like, two months."

"She's not fully recovered yet," I said, trying to sound like a good person instead of someone who was secretly low-key enjoying it. "Plus, Buster's honestly my only friend who doesn't make everything weird."

"Ouch."

"You know what I mean." Social dynamics at Northwood High had reached DEFCON 1 levels lately. Between friend groups shifting like tectonic plates and everyone suddenly being "in situationships" that nobody could explain but everyone had opinions about, I was emotionally exhausted by second period.

Buster was waiting by Ms. Henderson's fence, tail going so hard his entire back half was involved in the motion. That was the thing about dogs — their love was aggressively uncomplicated. No games. No subtext. Just pure energy and bad decisions.

We walked our usual route through the neighborhood, me doomscrolling through texts that required way too much emotional energy to answer, Buster stopping every seventeen seconds to investigate something that was definitely not worth stopping for.

And then, out of nowhere, my **hat** chose that moment to abandon ship.

Probably the wind. Probably my bad life choices catching up with me. But it rolled across the sidewalk like a tumbleweed of shame, and when I chased it down, I caught my reflection in someone's parked car window.

Hair everywhere. Dark circles. The kind of vibe that said "I'm not okay but I'm functioning, technically."

Buster sat next to me, leaning his entire body weight against my leg like he'd been assigned as my emotional support animal by the universe.

"You think anyone notices?" I asked him. "Like, actually sees it?"

Buster licked my hand. Dogs were terrible at existential crises but excellent at being present.

I pulled the beanie back on, adjusting it so it covered the worst of the disaster. Then I did something I hadn't done in weeks — I put my phone in my pocket and just walked. No music. No scrolling. Just the sound of Buster's tags jingling and the sunset turning everything that weird golden hour color that made even the ugliest parts of the neighborhood look cinematic.

Maybe feeling like a zombie wasn't the end of the world. Maybe everyone was kind of faking it through high school, trying on different versions of themselves like they were costumes, hoping something would eventually fit right.

"Alright, Buster," I said, turning back toward Ms. Henderson's house. "Let's get you home. Same time tomorrow?"

His tail answered before I finished the sentence.

Small wins. I'd take them.