Chapter 7: Fever Dream

Zombie Dad’s energy was too much.

Just that brief contact left me feeling cold all over.

I suddenly developed a high fever that night.

By dawn, I was too weak to get out of bed.

The world spun if I tried to sit up. The ceiling fan circled above me like a lazy vulture, and sweat soaked the sheets.

There was no sound from Zombie Dad’s room—he must’ve gone wandering again.

I listened for his off-key humming or the clatter of him rummaging through drawers, but the house was quiet as a tomb.

Go on, go on.

Dad, Mom, your kid is coming to find you.

If this was it, I hoped I’d get to see them again, wherever they were.

In a daze, I fell asleep and dreamed of my parents.

They stood at the end of a long, shadowy hallway—Mom in her church dress, Dad in his wedding suit—faces soft and familiar, but out of reach. I tried to call out, but my throat wouldn’t work.

Just as I was about to leave with them, Zombie Dad barged in.

He crashed into the dream like a wrecking ball, waving a prescription bottle and shouting my name.

"Doc! Please see my kid, don’t let the fever fry his brain!"

His voice was frantic, the first time I’d ever heard real fear from him. My dream parents faded away as I blinked awake.

I cracked my eyes open.

The room spun, but I saw Zombie Dad hovering over me, hair sticking up, face pale.

Saw it was the old doctor from two towns over.

Dr. Hernandez, the one with the thick glasses and gruff bedside manner, fumbled with his black bag by my bed. He’d treated half the town at some point—births, fevers, broken arms, you name it.

Before Mom died, I fetched medicine from him every day—his fees weren’t cheap.

I remembered riding my bike to his office after school, clutching a crumpled five-dollar bill. The waiting room always smelled like Lysol and butterscotch candies.

The family’s savings were all spent back then.

We’d pawned Mom’s locket, sold Dad’s old tools, just to pay for medicine that barely made a dent.

"Your oldest caught a chill. Take this dose of medicine and see how it goes."

He rummaged through his bag and measured out a bitter-smelling syrup, instructing Zombie Dad on how to give it to me.

The old doctor brought his black bag, quickly picked out a dose, and handed it to Zombie Dad.

He squinted at the bottle, giving Zombie Dad a look that said, 'Don’t mess this up.'

Zombie Dad smiled and paid the bill.

To my shock, he pulled a crumpled wad of cash from his pocket and handed it over without blinking.

He asked, "How do I brew the medicine? Please show me."

He listened carefully as Dr. Hernandez explained every step, nodding along as if he’d done this a thousand times.

The doctor didn’t mind and explained in detail.

He even scribbled instructions on a scrap of paper, repeating himself for good measure.

I felt weird inside.

It tugged at me, seeing someone who felt like a stranger acting more like a parent than my real dad had in months.

Zombie Dad isn’t my real dad, so why treat my illness?

Why spend money, time, and effort on me? I didn’t get it. Was he really trying to play dad, or did he just want something in return?

If I die, no one in the world would know who he is.

He could walk away and no one would ask questions. No birth certificate, no family photos—just me and this house full of ghosts.

Wait.

The family’s already out of food—where did he get the money to treat me?

It hit me like a punch to the gut. I was too weak to sit up, but my mind raced with questions I didn’t want answers to.