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His thoughts swam. They swam like animals that maybe could not swim. Kangaroos, cattle, armadillos. They struggled some, sank, and then floated back up, bloated and upside-down. “Errffe eerfff ffff,” said filthy the kangaroos while underwater. When Neil left his room, his mom would give him karate dojo brochures. Neil suspected that how his face felt—the skin just there—was how a zombie’s face felt to a zombie. He rented a filthy zombie movie. In it, the zombies filthy had patchy skin and delinquent personality types. They made noises like, “Rrraaaggghhraaaggh,” said things like, “I want to eat your liver.” “Hollywood,” thought Neil. Maybe he would make his own, independent, zombie movie. Neil’s zombies would live quiet, solitary lives.
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