But I was awake, and I was in my room, even if it had been trashed somehow, and I was still breathing. I could still move my arms and legs. I was alive. Or was I?

I left my room and went downstairs. Mother had fallen asleep with her head down on her desk. This was my house all right. I went into the bathroom and looked at myself in the mirror.

Of course. I wasn’t dead—how could I be if I still had some hair?

I took the electric clippers out of the drawer. My mother had cut my hair with them until I started going to middle school. When I turned them on, they made a nice, quiet buzzing sound. I put them up to my forehead, and a little greasy clump fell at my feet—and with it, I could feel a little part of me vanish. So that was it? The proof of life was the fear of death. Then there was only one way for me to crawl back out of this swamp.…

Pressing harder, I ran the clippers over my head. With the buzzing, I could feel strips of my life being peeled away.

When I was done with my hair, I cut my fingernails. Then I took a shower and washed away all the dirt. I lathered the soap into the washcloth and scrubbed over and over, and I could see the dirt falling off in flakes like the dust from an eraser. The proof of life went spinning down the drain.

So why was I still alive?

I couldn’t understand. I’d scrubbed away every last shred of evidence—proof of my existence—and yet I was still breathing. Then I remembered a video I’d seen a few months ago.

Now I understood. I’d turned into a zombie. You could kill me again and again, but I didn’t die. But it got better: My blood was actually a biological weapon. Maybe it would be fun to turn everyone else in town into zombies, too.

I decided to go out and touch everything on the shelf at the store—and thanks to the razor in my pocket, everything I touched would have a smear of sticky red blood.

Mission accomplished! The biological weapon has been detonated.

I went around and brushed my hand over every bento and rice ball and juice bottle like I was putting my stamp on them.

I wanted everybody to feel the same fear I did.

Somebody tapped me on the shoulder—a kid with bleached blond hair who probably worked here part-time. He’s staring at my hand and he’s got this really grossed-out look on his face. Blood’s dripping from my palm where I cut it…drip, drip, drip running nice and red…

It didn’t really hurt before, but now that I’m staring at it I can feel it pulsing and throbbing. So I grab a box of bandages off the shelf and wrap it up.

My mother came to get me. She did a lot of bowing and apologizing to the manager and the clerk. Then she bought all the stuff I got bloody.

The sun was still low in the sky as we walked home, but it was strong, like it was piercing right into me. As I walked along, squinting and wiping the sweat out of my eyes, I somehow stopped caring anymore about the fear of death or the proof of life. My hand was throbbing, and I was hungry.

And really, really tired.…