Zombie Mode Activated

I was dead on my feet, literally. Three weeks of swim practice followed by cross-country running had me moving through school like I'd graduated from the Walking Dead Academy. My friends started calling me Zombie Boy, which honestly? Valid.

"You look deceased," Maya said, sliding into the cafeteria seat beside me. Her nose wrinkled. "And you smell like chlorine and despair."

"It's called peak athletic performance," I mumbled, faceplanting onto my tray. Junior year was absolutely cooking me. Between AP classes, swim mornings, and running afternoons, my entire personality had dissolved into exhaustion and sports drink.

Then she dropped the bomb. "There's that Zombie 5K this Saturday. Charity event. You should sign up."

I stared at her like she'd suggested I jump into a shark tank. Without the swimming skills.

"Dude, it's for mental health awareness," she continued, already pulling out her phone. "Everyone's doing it. Tyler's going. Sarah's going."

My stomach did something complicated. Tyler was going. Tyler, who I'd been lowkey crushing on since September, who I'd approximately 0.000% chance of talking to outside of shared English class.

"Fine," I heard myself say. "But if I die, tell my mom I loved her."

Saturday arrived with grey skies and my entire body screaming in protest. I showed up in my rattiest running clothes, prepared to shuffle through 3.1 miles of absolute misery. Then I saw him—Tyler, stretching by the start line in a "Run Like Your Life Depends On It" shirt, looking unfairly good.

Before I could panic-sprint away, this golden retriever came out of nowhere and body-slammed into my legs.

"OOF." I went down. Hard. Face full of grass.

"BUSTER!" Tyler came jogging over. "Oh my god, are you okay? That's my aunt's dog, he's literally escaped three times this—" He stopped, hands hovering over me. "Wait, you're Marcus from English, right?"

I was horizontal. In mud. With a dog licking my ear. This was fine. Everything was fine.

"Yeah," I wheezed. "I'm good. Just recalibrating."

Tyler helped me up, and Buster decided my running shoes were his new best friend. We spent the entire 5K running together—Tyler, me, and the chaos dog who wouldn't leave us alone. We talked about books we hated, teachers who lived to torture students, and how swimming was basically just regulated drowning.

"We should hang out sometime," Tyler said at the finish line, while Buster proudly wore my participation medal like he'd earned it. "Like, actually hang out. Not just English-class acknowledgments."

"Yeah," I said, my heart doing something that had nothing to do with running three miles. "I'd like that."

I walked home exhausted, muddy, and carrying a dog who wasn't even mine. For the first time in weeks, I didn't feel like a zombie anymore. Maybe I was finally coming back to life.