Zombie Mode Off

The vitamin D gummies sat on my desk like accusations. Mom swore they'd fix everything—my energy, my mood, my apparently concerning pallor. I choked down two with room-temperature coffee, already feeling like a zombie before 7 AM.

Finals week would do that to you.

My iphone buzzed. Again. Maya's fifth text about the party I wasn't going to: "plz come it'll be lame without u"

I couldn't. I had three AP exams, a history paper, and basically my entire future riding on the next week. Social life? Cancelled. Sleep? Negotiable. My skin had taken on a distinctly grayish undertone. I'd started answering to "hey, you look terrible" instead of my actual name.

That's when I saw the fox.

It appeared in my backyard at dusk, all rust-colored cleverness and bright eyes that seemed to see right through my window. A literal fox. In suburban Connecticut. It moved with this loose, easy confidence, tail flicking like it had somewhere better to be.

The fox paused, glanced at my phone-lit face, and let out this weirdly human-like yip.

I stared. It stared back.

Then it bolted, vanishing into the woods behind our fence like it had never existed.

Something in my chest loosened. The fox didn't care about GPAs or college apps or whether I'd ruined my social standing by skipping parties for three weeks straight. It just *was*—wild and unbothered and completely itself.

I picked up my phone and typed: "im coming. bring extra snacks"

Maya replied in seconds: "OMFG FINALLY"

I grabbed my hoodie and headed out, zombie mode officially deactivated. The vitamins could wait. The fox would understand.