I like to be nice. I want to be a hero. I want to save people. Or just kill zombies, because they deserve it, because they’re already dead and they can’t feel it. They don’t have feelings.
When one is undone—sprawled across the cold tile of a public bathroom in a pool of one’s own vomit, or shivering in the back of a taxi in a pair of urine-soaked skinny jeans with no money for cab fare and a dead cell phone battery.
