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“Welcome to Zombie Café, where the undead live again and the boring people join the zombie parade after one sip of our Cold Body coffee!”

Okay, it’s not perfect. The café’s slogan is a mouthful, but when it’s shouted from the one barista behind the bar, prepping and pouring drink after drink, I’m impressed.

The interior of Zombie is my second favorite part, from the big, comfy armchairs to the handwritten chalk menus behind the front register. An entire wall is a floor-to-ceiling mural of a happy zombie drinking coffee, a green sun, and cartoony skulls with heart-shaped eye sockets. Inside the zombie’s exposed chest cavity is a map of Atlanta in swirls of peach and bumblebee yellow. Novels donated by customers stuff a bookshelf next to a table stacked with classic board games.

By the door, a giant window overlooks Roswell Road. It’s the epicenter of the church of college hipsters—a mecca of laptops, iPads, and headphones on round tables. Another wall, opposite the coffee bar, is exposed brick with customers’ autographs scrawled in silver Sharpie.

I gaze over the unpolished hardwood floors and the zebra-print rug where children sit with smoothies. This place feels lived in.

“What graveyard gods do I need to thank for a visit from my two favorite delinquents?” asks Trixie, the barista behind the bar.

“We might be delinquents,” says Lucy, “but we tip well.”

“Tue story.”

Trixie is the best. I don’t know if that’s her real name, but she’s got enough sass and old-school, punk-rock greatness to pull it off.

“Cutting extracurriculars to visit me, kids?” She maintains eye contact while managing to steam, pour, and lid drinks. It’s all second nature. Trixie’s worked at Zombie since it opened ten years ago.

“Maybe,” I say.

“Maybe?” Trixie’s grin is infectious.

“Possibly.”

“Where else would we spend our afternoons?” Lucy asks, playing nonchalant in the worst way.

“Bullshit.” Trixie’s mouth cocks; her eyes narrow. “I call bullshit.”

Yep, Trixie’s a rock goddess in ripped flannel. We’re just her loyal subjects.

“This guy,” Lucy finally says, jerking her thumb at me, “needed a break from a junior-year-stress meltdown.”

Trixie starts another drink, nodding.

I’m too embarrassed to remind Lucy that snitches get stitches. I do need a breather from thinking about Ms. Amos and AP Lit and Emory. I just don’t need that broadcast to the small collection of frat bros fist-bumping and drinking iced Americanos at the bar.

“Are you going to turn into one of those seventeen-year-old emo kids?” Trixie asks. She has a half-pixie-cut, half-Mohawk going on. It’s dyed licorice red. She’s wearing an Indigo Girls T-shirt and has a severe case of mascara overload. Trixieisemo.

“What? No.”

“Oh, Remy. It’s happening. Trips to Hot Topic. Black coffee and tragic poetry.” Trixie looks horrified. “Alt-rock music!”

“Trixie, what the ever-loving fu—”

Lucy’s wheezing with laughter. “The dark side hasn’t claimed him yet!”

I give her the evil eye. Imightbe contemplating ways to torture her at a later date. I ignore their silly banter; my eyes scan the café. It’s not too busy today. The usual college students inhabit their digital islands while a sprinkle of parents wait for afterschool activities to end. The early-in, early-out work crowd savors their last gulp of caffeine. A little girl dances to a song I don’t know the words to. I tap my foot along because I love discovering new music, because I love this café, this hole in reality where I exist with no expectations.

Huddled in a pear-green armchair is a boy in a Zombie apron. Sunlight reflects off his full-rim eyeglasses. He’s drawing something odd and colorful on a chalkboard in his lap.

I freeze, caught in a time loop.

“New guy,” explains Trixie. “Started two weeks ago. He’s a little weird, but a cool kinda weird. Like you, Remy.”

Like me. No, not like me at all.

“Like Remy,” Lucy repeats, her tone nauseatingly snarky. “Basically, he fits right in.” Before I can speak—or breathe like anormal human—Lucy adds, “We know him.”