Chapter 4: The Exercise Craze

Another three days passed.

It was the kind of week that felt like a month, each day running together like dirty snowmelt in the gutter.

Zombie Dad had completely cleared my dad’s body of old sickness.

I watched as the lines in his face smoothed out, the cough faded, and he seemed to breathe easier, like the air was fresher just for him.

He was excitedly doing strange moves in the backyard.

To anyone watching from the neighboring yards, he probably looked like a washed-up aerobics instructor—arms waving, hips swinging to some music only he could hear.

"Roll your neck, shake your butt!"

"Early to bed, early to rise—let’s get moving!"

His voice boomed out, probably loud enough for old Mrs. Murphy to hear three houses down. If he kept it up, the neighborhood association would start a petition.

I frowned, covered my ears, and watched him.

I peeked through the blinds, half embarrassed and half curious. I hoped no one would post a video online—'Zombie Dad Does the Macarena' would definitely go viral in our small town.

Those moves were truly ridiculous.

Even the dog next door stopped barking, as if confused by the spectacle.

But… I still secretly practiced them at night.

When the house got quiet and the streetlights flickered on, I’d try a few stretches behind the closed bathroom door, just to see if it really did anything.

Zombie Dad’s powers were wild—maybe this set of exercises would work miracles.

Who knew? Maybe it was the next big fitness craze, right after goat yoga and hot pilates. If it could fix Dad, maybe it could help me, too.

After practicing five or six days, sure enough, the tightness in my chest and dizziness I always had got better, and I didn’t get winded walking fast anymore.

I jogged up the stairs without stopping, felt less tired after shoveling snow off the driveway. It was almost like having a new body—or at least one that wasn’t falling apart.

But Zombie Dad couldn’t stick to anything for long.

He flitted from one idea to the next, like a squirrel on espresso, never settling down long enough to finish what he started.

Once he could run and jump, he’d go wandering off whenever he had time.

Sometimes he’d be gone for hours, coming back with wild stories about secret shortcuts or new friends at the gas station. I stopped asking questions; I never got a straight answer.

But today, he came back quickly…

He stomped up the porch steps, muttering to himself loud enough to scare away the birds from the feeder.

Muttering curses:

"Damn, the whole road’s a mess, nothing but crap everywhere. These old sneakers are useless."

He kicked off his shoes by the door, trailing mud across the faded welcome mat. I eyed the footprints, already dreading the cleanup.

He came in and saw me cooking, lifted the pot lid.

He sniffed suspiciously, like a judge on a cooking show, then gave me a dramatic sigh.

His brows wrinkled up like old raisins. "Wild greens soup again? I’m about to turn green from drinking this."

I looked at his face, thinking: What nonsense, it’s clearly pale as wax.

He complained, but he didn’t leave a drop behind. I fought back a smirk, watching him gulp it down as if it was gourmet.