Chapter 1: Resurrection and Ramen

I’d barely finished tucking the old afghan around Dad’s still body when he jolted upright—like death had hit rewind.

My heart just about jumped out of my chest. My fingers went numb. I staggered back, tripping over the corner of the rug, the blood roaring in my ears. One second I’m just a kid—thirteen, eighth grade, barely holding it together—tucking in the old man for the last time. The next, he’s sitting bolt upright like one of those jump-scare zombies from a late-night horror flick. For a split second, all I could hear was the hum of the refrigerator and my own panicked breath.

Looking around, waving his hands wildly, Dad—if it was Dad—exclaimed, "Holy crap, did I just wake up in a different world?"

His eyes were wild, darting from the faded wallpaper to the battered bookshelf stacked with his old paperbacks, and finally landing on me. The way he flailed his arms, he nearly knocked the lamp off the end table. I half-expected him to ask what year it was or if the Cubs had finally won the World Series.

I quietly edged away…

I tried not to make a sound, sliding my socks across the scuffed linoleum. If he noticed the way my hands shook, he didn’t say a word. I made sure to keep the kitchen table between us, just in case.

At first, Zombie Dad couldn’t work and just lazed around all day.

It was like he’d never heard of chores—or responsibility. He lounged on Dad’s old recliner, remote in hand, flipping through channels as if he owned the place. The TV buzzed with static most of the time, but he didn’t seem to care. Meanwhile, the sink filled up with dishes and the fridge grew emptier by the hour.

I thought: Fine, then we’ll just starve together.

I slumped onto the couch, my stomach rumbling, thinking, If you’re gonna freeload, at least chip in for groceries, ghost or not.

Later, he strutted around, scamming food and eating for free.

I caught him sneaking into Mrs. Jenkins’ backyard, chatting her up like he was running for city council, and coming back with an armful of leftovers—cold fried chicken, half a pie, even a couple of sodas. He acted like he’d struck gold, grinning ear to ear.

I thought: A good smack upside the head would set him straight.

If Mom were here, she’d have grabbed a wooden spoon and put him back in line. But all I could do was glare and mutter under my breath.

Never did I expect that one day I’d be hoping for my dad to become some kind of superhero.

Honestly, if he could’ve just pulled a Clark Kent and saved us from this mess, I’d have forgiven all the weirdness in a heartbeat. That’s how desperate things felt.