Zombie Mode at Home Plate

Maya dragged herself to the baseball field like a zombie from one of those cheesy movies Leo obsessed over. Three hours of sleep, two AP exams, and one crushing anxiety about whether she'd even made varsity would do that to a person.

"You look dead, Diaz," Leo called from the dugout, grinning like he didn't have the same dark circles under his eyes. "Hit this or I'm telling everyone you've gone full zombie."

He tossed her a papaya from his backpack. Weird flex, but Leo was always doing random stuff like that.

"Eat this first. My abuela says it's brain food."

"Your abuela also says watching zombie movies rots your brain," Maya shot back, but she took a bite anyway. Sweet. Weirdly tropical. Not terrible.

The baseball sat on the tee. Maya adjusted her grip, sweat already trickling down her spine even though it was barely ten in the morning. Coach blew the whistle somewhere behind her.

First cut of tryouts. The moment that determined whether she spent her summer on the field or working at her mom's restaurant again.

She felt like a zombie going through the motions of a life she didn't remember signing up for. School, grades, expectations, the constant pressure to be something for everyone else.

Then she swung.

CRACK.

The ball soared past the outfielders' gloves, landed somewhere near the parking lot. Perfect. Absolutely perfect.

Leo whooped. "Did you SEE that? You're not a zombie anymore, Maya—you're alive!"

Something unclenched in her chest. Maybe it was the papaya. Maybe it was the way the baseball felt connecting with the bat, pure and solid and completely under her control.

Or maybe it was just realizing that zombie mode was optional—that she could choose to wake up anytime.

"Again," Maya said, stepping back into the batter's box, feeling something like hope flicker to life in her chest for the first time in months. "Pitch me another one."