Zombie Summer

The baseball hit the dirt with a dull thud, same as my heart. Coach Miller was screaming something about "hustle" and "dedication," but I just wanted to collapse. Three hours of practice after three hours of summer school, plus the graveyard shift at Taco Bell—no wonder I felt like a zombie.

"You good, Marcus?" Ty asked, tossing me a Gatorade. "You look like you haven't slept since finals week."

"Haven't," I muttered, wiping sweat from my eyes. "Working double shifts to save for a car. My mom's been tripping about my grades too."

Ty laughed. "Join the club. My dad thinks baseball is my ticket to an Ivy League, like I'm some academic weapon or something. Bro, I barely passed algebra."

We walked to the parking lot, cleats clicking against asphalt. The summer heat hit different at 7 PM—still blazing, still unforgiving. My stomach growled loud enough to make Ty raise an eyebrow.

"Yo, when did you last eat?"

"This morning." I checked my phone. Three missed calls from Mom. "She wants me home for dinner. Apparently she went to that international market and bought a whole papaya."

"Papaya?" Ty made a face. "That's suspicious behavior, bro."

"She's trying to be healthy after her doctor appointment. She thinks papaya is some miracle fruit now."

But when I got home, the kitchen table told a different story. Mom sat in her usual spot, but her eyes were somewhere else—distant, glassy. The papaya sat on a cutting board, sliced into neat orange crescents. Neither of us spoke for a long minute.

"How was practice?" she finally asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Fine." I sat down, cleats still on. "You okay?"

"Your grandmother's sick," she said, not meeting my eyes. "In the Philippines. They say it's her heart."

The papaya between us suddenly made sense—Grandma Lola's favorite. Mom hadn't bought it for health. She'd bought it because she was remembering.

"I'm sorry," I said, because what else could I say?

"She used to grow these," Mom continued, her fingers tracing the cutting board's edge. "In her backyard. She'd make me eat them every morning, said they'd make me strong. I hated them then. Now..."

She pushed a slice toward me.

"Try it. For Grandma Lola."

I took a bite. Sweet, soft, strange. It tasted like memory, like something I couldn't quite hold onto.

"It's good," I lied, then didn't lie. "Actually, yeah. It's good."

For the first time all summer, the zombie feeling faded. Just me, my mom, and papaya at the kitchen table, both of us hungry for something that wasn't food.