Return of the Jed by Scott Craven

that’s what he said? ‘A canine in that condition’?”
    “I think so,” Marisa said. “Is it really that big a deal?”
    I needed to focus on Tread, specifically keeping him away from people far too interested in him. I did my best to push aside my anger over the whole “condition” label.
    “Irritable bowel syndrome” was a condition. “Male pattern baldness” was a condition. But being a zombie was a virtue. I felt sorry for fleshies who couldn’t hold their breath for five minutes in the boys’ bathroom, an ability that had gotten me through many visits when someone suffering from irritable bowel syndrome recently visited it.
    I pressed Marisa. “I’m not sure how your story explains what you were doing at the kennels.”
    “Who wouldn’t want to see a zombie dog?” Marisa said. “If there were a zombie zoo, I’d be there every day. Feeding brains to the zombie lions. It made me wonder if zombie elephants would eat brains too, or if they’d be vegetarians. Maybe eating dead plants.”
    “You think way too much about zombies,” I said.
    “I guess, but since, you know, I’ve never met one before, I thought you might know everything zombie related.”
    “I don’t know any zombie elephants or zombie lions or zombie zoos—”
    “She’s right, though,” Luke interrupted. “A zombie zoo would be pretty cool. You could watch the tigers attack antelopes over and over and over. It might be in slow motion, but still, I like the concept.”
    “Two things,” I said. “First, zombies don’t move in slow motion. I thought we were clear on that. Secondly, I’m the only zombie, as far as I know. Can we get back to what you’re doing here?”
    “She told you,” Ryan whined. “We came to see the zombie dog. But I have to admit, he’s kind of a disappointment.”
    Tread lifted his head as if he knew we were talking about him. This had been a long night for him, undead or not. He put his head back down, let out a soft groan, and closed his eyes.
    My dog obviously didn’t care about being trash-talked, so I took offense enough for the both of us.
    “Really? A disappointment?” I asked Ryan. “How so?”
    “I was kind of expecting red eyes, long sharp fangs dripping in blood, wide-open gashes along his body so you could see his bones and muscles, and that he fetched brains,” Ryan answered. “You know? A zombie dog.”
    “Tell you what. You chase a dog into traffic, make sure it’s run over and dies, then bring it back to life. Then you can tell me how disappointed you are that your brand new zombie dog doesn’t go around eating everyone.”
    I scratched Tread’s head, leaned over, and whispered, “I’m happy you don’t eat people. And do walk well on a leash.”
    “Wait.” Marisa kicked my foot. “That’s how you did it?”
    “Did what?”
    “Made a zombie dog?”
    “First, I never planned to make a zombie dog. It just happened. Like I just happened.”
    “Which leads me to a question I’ve been dying to ask,” Marisa said. “So to speak.”
    Of course it was the question she was dying to ask. It was the question everybody was dying to ask when they met me and wondered why my limbs tended to be removable.
    “You want to know how I’m a zombie.”
    “Yes. If that’s OK. You probably get that question a lot.”
    “I do, and I will tell you what I’ve told everyone else. I just am. Just like everybody just is. I mean, you’re Latina, right?”
    “I am, and proudly so.”
    “How did you get like that?”
    Marisa looked at me as if I’d insulted her. “What do you mean, like this? You mean Latina? How do you think?”
    “Now ask me how I got to be a zombie.”
    Her face softened. “You just are.”
    “Right.”
    I told her the story my parents told me, how everyone thought I was born dead, but it turned out I was just undead. That at first I went through a bunch of tests until Mom and Dad said enough was enough, since I seemed normal except for a heart that just laid