When the zombie outbreak hit, my two-faced best friend locked me out.
Before I could find somewhere to hide, the ten-year-old next door bit me on the butt.
He was little, and his teeth weren’t much good.
Becoming a zombie hadn’t made him much tougher, either.
Once he’d bitten me, he stiffly shuffled away.
Watching him go, I suddenly felt a little embarrassed.
Suppose zombies ruled the world years from now, and someone asked how we’d all turned.
Everyone else would have fought off a whole pack of vicious zombies before finally going down.
Or sacrificed themselves heroically to save humanity.
Was I supposed to say I’d been lousy at hiding and some brat shorter than me had bitten my butt?
I felt pretty miserable.
But not for long.
Then I decided to stop trying.
