- Reunion is cool and all… unless they’re trying to munch your face off.

  - Whoever they were, they’re not anymore. Let go.

  - Nostalgia is a bitch. Don’t get caught with your pants down and your heart open.

  ---

  There’s this rule in video games and movies: if you love a character, they’re probably going to die.

  In real life, it’s worse. Because you don’t just lose them—you have to kill what’s left.

  Before the outbreak, my cousin Jake was one of the only people who got me. He was older by a year, already working at the auto shop his dad left behind. We’d hang out most weekends. He’d bring beer. I’d cook microwave pizza rolls. We talked about stupid things—games, movies, conspiracy theories about birds being government drones.

  He was loud, warm, and full of big dreams for small-town nobodies like us. I wanted to start a business someday. He wanted to build a custom car with his name on it.

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  We both knew we were probably bullshitting ourselves.

  Didn’t stop us from dreaming.

  The last time I saw him—really saw him—was three days after the first screams hit Gracetown. I’d been holed up in my house, rationing canned peaches and peanut butter, waiting for it all to blow over.

  It didn’t.

  I decided to check on him, stupidly hoping he was holed up too. Maybe we’d team up, pool resources. I even packed extra food for him.

  The auto shop was dark. The door was cracked open. I crept in with my flashlight and makeshift spear held tight. The smell hit first—like rotting meat in the sun.

  He was hunched over something behind the counter. I called out his name.

  He looked up.

  Blood on his chin. Grey skin. Eyes like cloudy glass.

  For a second, he smiled.

  I froze. My heart was hammering so loud I couldn’t think. This was Jake. My cousin. The guy who used to sneak me into movies and talk me down from panic attacks. He stepped forward, slowly at first, then with more hunger than recognition.

  I don’t remember moving. My body did it for me.

  The spear went through his chest on instinct. He collapsed with a soft, awful noise. Not a scream. Not a growl. Just… a sigh.

  Afterward, I puked behind a stack of tires. Sat there for a long time, shaking.

  I kept thinking: “What if he was still in there? What if he remembered me?”

  But here’s the truth: hope will get you killed. Nostalgia too.

  Jake died days before I got there. What I killed was just the echo.

  That was the first time I cried since the outbreak began.

  Not the last.