My skin carried the hue of a forgotten relic, an ashen gray that caught the flicker of the streetlights in a ghostly glow. It wasn’t just the color; it was the texture too—like dried leather left out to rot, rough and cracked, the kind of surface that told you time gave up trying to erode it. Deep creases slashed across my face, the remnants of a past buried long before its time, and my eyes, sunken into shadowed hollows, peered out like they’d been staring at the dark for too long.


    Cali took a small vial of viscous liquid out of the first aid kit and started to clean my wounds. It was a standard healing tonic. Her hands were deft, but she wasn’t gentle. When I yelped, she looked at me with a smirk. "Big baby."


    "You don’t have to take so much enjoyment in it," I said through gritted teeth.


    Her lips curved into a wide grin. "Keeps you honest. Besides, good to know you can still feel things," she quipped. But I was getting a little worried about that; this all should have been much more painful than it was. She thrust the vial toward my face.


    "Drink up, zombie boy."


    My gaze hovered over the clear liquid, my grotesque reflection staring back at me. Cali''s eyes were practically drilling holes into my skull. With a reluctant hand, I accepted the familiar healing concoction, swirling it around skeptically. Cali’s glare intensified.


    “Just drink it, you old mop.”


    I took a deep breath, bringing the glass to my lips and forcing myself to swallow. The thick liquid moved down my throat, making me grimace. Usually, the taste was unbearable, like drinking snails coated in battery acid. But this time it was different. It barely tasted like anything. I wondered if my dying nerve endings were to blame.


    I gulped it down, feeling the tingle as the potion started to work, knitting my skin back together. Relief flooded in for a moment—until it didn’t. A sharp hiss filled the air, and my flesh began to sizzle like someone had dropped acid on it. The pain was instant, searing. I thrashed wildly, trying to spit it out, but it was too late. She grabbed a glass of water, shoving it into my hand, but a sip only spread the burn, making it worse.


    “Damn it!” I managed to croak, clawing at my throat.


    She scrambled, then appeared with a gallon jug of milk. I ripped off the cap and downed it in desperate gulps, pouring the rest over my neck where the potion had turned my skin into a smoldering mess. The hissing finally started to fade, and I sagged in relief, even as the milk dribbled out through the raw, open wound.


    “I’m so sorry, Jack.”


    “It’s fine,” I rasped, feeling the last remnants of the potion working their way down to my gut, where it settled like a lead weight. “Neither of us could’ve known it’d do that. Guess health potions aren’t meant for the undead.”


    She watched as the milk slowly seeped out of my neck, a mix of horror and resignation in her eyes. “We need to find something that actually helps.”


    She got back to patching me up, this time sticking to tape and stitches, while the rest of the potions got shoved far, far away.


    "So, this deal with Death, what''s the scoop?"


    "Just some freelance work," I explained.


    “And what about the whole zombie thing? Should I be worried you’ll start craving brains, or are you more of the cute and cuddly variety?”


    “There’s a cuddly type?”


    “I don’t know, Jack. I’m not exactly an expert on the undead.”


    Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    I paused, considering. “Honestly? Still figuring that part out myself.”


    She let out a low whistle. As she resumed her work, I leaned back, feeling the weariness creep in. The pain was dulling, replaced by a new sensation - an emptiness, a gnawing hunger that was starting to grow. I shook it off, focusing on the task at hand.


    Cali''s nimble fingers moved with expert precision, the needle and thread dancing in her hands as she carefully stitched up my skin. Years of growing up on a farm had given her plenty of practice stitching up her brothers long before she could even ride a bike. Her natural talent and dexterity, honed by years of hard work, also made her a formidable mechanic.


    The night stretched on as Cali tended to my wounds. We slipped into a comfortable conversation. But deep down, I knew nothing would ever be the same again.


    As she finished patching me up, I couldn''t help but admire her. Despite the grease and dirt smudged on her face and clothes, she exuded a raw beauty that was both wholesome and devilish.


    In her early thirties, with ocean blue eyes and a warm smile, Cali radiated genuine kindness.


    She’d told me once how they’d all come down from Montana together—her, her father, and her brothers—back when the shop still buzzed with their voices and the clatter of tools. But the boys were always restless, like stray cats who couldn''t stand being penned in. Charlie took off west, chasing stardom in Hollywood, while Jim hopped a train to Chicago, convinced he’d strike it big in the stockyards.


    Now they were scattered across America, chasing dreams in a booming, chaotic world. She’d been left to pick up the slack, and it showed—her hands, rough and calloused from years of hard work, always had traces of oil clinging stubbornly beneath her nails, no matter how much she scrubbed. There’s a metaphor in there somewhere—something about the city sinking into your skin, leaving its mark—but I was too tired and too hungry to care.


    The shop was quieter now, emptier, but she kept it running, same as always. She said she preferred it that way—calmer, less chaos. Fewer voices meant fewer arguments, and she could focus. At least, that’s how she put it. But I’d catch that flicker of nostalgia in her eyes, like she missed the noise more than she’d let on.


    I think she would’ve walked away long ago if it weren’t for the ghosts keeping her company. Maybe that’s why we got along so well—both of us clinging to something that refused to fade, like oil stains that never quite washed out.


    When she was finished, I leaned back. "Thanks for the patch-up, Doc. Got any spare brains lying around?"


    She rolled her eyes but smiled weakly. “You are obviously in want of one.”


    I closed my eyes, the weariness finally taking over.


    "We’ll figure this out," she said, her voice steady. "We always do."


    "Yeah," I muttered. "We always do."


    I cleaned up in her bathroom, and she lent me some clothes her older brother had left behind. She offered to let me take my car home, but I couldn''t afford the repairs, and my pride wouldn’t let me accept the favor. When she suggested giving me a lift in her truck, I reluctantly agreed.


    As we headed to my place, I let out a defeated sigh. "I''ll pay you back for all you do for me, Cali, I promise."


    She waved off my words, her eyes fixed on the road. "You were a hero, Jack. You helped a lot of people. The world might have forgotten, but I haven’t. You gotta let people help you once in a while."


    Her words hit harder than any punch. You were a hero. Were being the key word. I managed a small smile and whispered, “You must’ve been kissed by an angel, Cali.”


    She glanced at me, one eyebrow raised. "What was that?"


    "Nothing," I said, chuckling. "Just thinking out loud."


    Rain pounded the truck’s roof, the wipers slashing like blades against tiny bullets. Each mile we covered, the past clawed at me, but Cali’s presence kept me grounded. She was something special, that girl. She was a beacon in the darkness.


    As the miles stretched out beneath the steady hum of the engine, an old, familiar ache resurfaced - a memory with the rawness of grief and the weight of regret. Part of me clung to that pain, almost welcoming its bitter taste. I took a deep breath, allowing myself to be swallowed by the past for just a moment. In that fleeting darkness, her image appeared before me: golden hair splayed out on the cold concrete, a stark contrast against the brutal splash of red that surrounded her.


    People loved to say ignorance is bliss, but that was a load of crap. It wasn’t the worries you braced for that gutted you—it was the sucker punches you never saw coming. They also liked to tell me her death wasn’t my fault, that there was nothing I could’ve done. People said a lot of things.


    If I had just taken the day off...