The morning crowd thickened around us as we approached the subway entrance. A sea of coffee cups and Bluetooth earpieces, everyone too focused on their phones to notice the dead guy walking among them. Almost everyone.

"Left foot, then right," I muttered, guiding Ethan down the station steps. "And try not to look like you're remembering how legs work."

"You know," he whispered back, gripping the railing like it might run away, "they don't exactly give you a manual for this. 'So You've Been Accidentally Resurrected' wasn't covered in my life skills class."

A woman in a pressed business suit glanced up from her phone, frowning at Ethan's jerky movements. I positioned myself between them, keeping my badge hidden but visible enough to discourage questions.

"Just pretend you're hungover," I said. "You're wearing scrubs at 7 AM - everyone will assume you're coming off a rough shift."

"Speaking of..." Ethan paused at the bottom of the stairs, letting a group of teenagers rush past. "Are we going to talk about the whole bringing-me-back-to-life thing? Because I have questions. Many questions. Starting with why my feet feel like they're full of Pop Rocks."

I swiped my metro card twice, ushering him through the turnstile before he could draw more attention. The platform wasn't crowded yet - small blessings of the early morning commute - but the surveillance cameras tracked our movement in slow sweeps.

"Not here," I said, steering him toward the far end of the platform where the cameras had a blind spot. "Once we're somewhere safe, I'll explain everything."

"Everything?" He raised an eyebrow, attempting to lean casually against a pillar and nearly missing it entirely. "Including why you, a cop, have illegal powers? Because that seems like a story worth-"

"Keep your voice down." I scanned the platform, noting the security guard by the ticket booth. "And for the record, my name's Katie. Detective Kay is for work. Work where, until about an hour ago, I had a perfect record of never accidentally resurrecting any witnesses."

The approaching train's vibrations rumbled through the platform. Ethan's eyes widened as he grabbed the pillar for support.

"Is this normal?" he asked, voice tight. "The whole... feeling everything more intensely thing?"

I didn't have an answer for that. None of my previous revivals had lasted long enough to report on the sensory experience. The train screamed into the station, and Ethan flinched at the noise.

"Just stay close," I said, guiding him toward the least crowded car.

The doors slid shut behind us, sealing us in with a handful of early commuters. None of them looked up from their phones as Ethan collapsed into the nearest seat, his borrowed scrubs crinkling against the plastic.

"I don't raise the dead," I said, keeping my voice low. "I temporarily revive them for questioning. Two and a half minutes, they answer some questions, then back to their eternal rest. Simple." I glanced at his very much alive form. "Usually."

"Is that normal too?" He wiggled his fingersmy hand in my pocket. “Because your hand was definitely glowing back there."

I stared at my palm, where the faint blue shimmer still pulsed beneath the skin. Level 9. Whatever that meant.

"That's... new," I admitted. "Like the rest of this situation."

Ethan leaned forward, lowering his voice. "So what you're saying is, I'm your first zombie?"

"Call yourself that again and I'll push you onto the tracks."

"Fine. Recently animated American?" Ethan shifted in his seat, the borrowed scrubs rustling. "Previously deceased pedestrian? Oh, I know - the walking formerly dead?"

A businessman two seats over glanced up from his newspaper. I fixed him with my best 'nothing to see here' detective stare until he retreated behind the sports section.

"How about we stick with Ethan?" I kept my voice low, watching the tunnel lights flicker past. "And maybe save the existential crisis for somewhere less public?"

Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

"Says the detective who just committed grand theft corpse." He rubbed his arms, frowning. "Is it always this cold on the subway? Or is this a... you know... thing?"

I pressed my fingers against his wrist, careful to block the motion from other passengers. No pulse, but his skin felt room temperature. Not exactly alive, but definitely not dead-dead.

"You're the first person who's stayed conscious past the time limit," I said. "Usually they just answer a few questions and..." I made a vague dropping motion with my hand.

"Drop dead?" His lips twitched. "Sorry, couldn't resist. But seriously, how long have you been able to-" he glanced at the businessman, who had lowered his paper again "-do your thing?"

The train lurched around a curve. Ethan grabbed the seat in front of him, knuckles white. Every bump and vibration seemed to hit him harder, like his nerves were still figuring out how to process sensation.

"Since I was sixteen," I said, watching his reaction. "My best friend's dog got hit by a car. I was holding him, crying, and suddenly he was licking my face again. For exactly thirty seconds.”

"Did he..." Ethan waggled his eyebrows meaningfully.

"Stay alive? No. And before you ask, you're my first human success story. If we can call this success."

The train squealed to a stop. A wave of commuters flooded the car, forcing Ethan to scrunch closer to the window. His shoulder pressed against mine, unnaturally cool through the thin scrubs.

"So what happens now?" he asked, voice barely audible above the crowd noise. "Because I'm guessing the police handbook doesn't cover 'accidental resurrection of key witness.'"

"First stop is finding you some real clothes," I said, eyeing a fresh coffee stain on his scrubs. "Then we visit a friend who might be able to help us figure this out."

"A friend who knows about your..." Ethan wiggled his fingers again, this time accidentally smacking the businessman's newspaper.

"Sorry," I mouthed at the guy's glare. To Ethan, I whispered, "Yes. And stop with the finger wiggling. You look like you're casting a spell."

"Well excuse me for not knowing the proper hand gestures for discussing illegal superpowers on public transit."

The train rattled through three more stops. Commuters shuffled in and out, a constant dance of briefcases and backpacks. Ethan flinched each time the doors slammed, his fingers drumming an unsteady rhythm on his knee.

"You still haven't answered my question," he said during a quieter stretch. "About what happens now."

I watched a transit cop pass our window on the platform. "Now we keep you hidden until I figure out how to undo this. Or until you..." I trailed off, not sure how to phrase 'return to being dead' without attracting more attention.

"Expire? Deactivate? Return to factory settings?"

"Do you ever stop?"

"Hey, gallows humor is all I've got right now. That and these lovely borrowed scrubs." He plucked at the fabric. "Which, by the way, still smell like morgue. Speaking of smells..." He leaned closer, sniffing. "Why can't I smell anything? The coffee guy next to us spilled half his cup and nothing."

I hadn't considered that. "Your body's probably still figuring things out. Like a computer rebooting."

"Great. So I'm both dead and Windows 95." The train jerked, and he caught himself against the window. "With really terrible coordination. How many more stops?"

"Four." I said while watching him somehow look even pailer.

He pressed his hands against his chest. "Do I need to breathe? Because I just realized I haven't been, and now I can't stop thinking about it, and-"

"Ethan." I cut him off as his voice rose. "You're spiraling."

"Right. Sorry. It's just..." He lowered his voice again. "This is a lot to process. One minute I'm being murdered, the next I'm on the subway with a detective who raises-"

I stepped on his foot. Hard.

"Ow! Okay, message received. No Z-word." He rubbed his foot. "Though that proves I can still feel pain, so... progress?"

Two more stops crawled by. The morning rush picked up, packing the car with people who didn't notice - or politely ignored - Ethan's occasional full-body shivers when someone brushed against him.

"Our stop," I said as the train slowed. The flood of commuters had thinned to a trickle. "Try not to-"

"Look dead, fall down, or make zombie jokes?" Ethan pushed himself up, wobbling slightly. "I'm learning."

The platform lights flickered as we stepped off, casting weird shadows across the tile walls. A familiar blue glow caught my eye - my hand still pulsed with that strange light, a beacon announcing 'illegal powered person right here' to anyone who looked close enough.

I shoved my hand into my jacket pocket, mind racing through options. Gloves would work, but leather in summer would draw attention. Maybe I could grab some medical tape, wrap it up like an injury. Better than getting caught because I'd turned into a human nightlight.

"You're doing that thing again," Ethan said as we climbed the stairs. "That 'I'm totally not panicking' face."

"I don't have a panic face."

"You've made that exact expression six times since the morgue. I'm keeping count." He paused at the top of the stairs, waiting for an elderly woman to pass. The motion looked almost natural - his walking had improved, even if his timing still seemed slightly off. "So what's wrong? Besides the obvious everything?"

I pulled my hand from my pocket just enough to show him the glow. "New powers apparently come with mood lighting."

"Cool. We could hit up some raves, you'd be a hit."

"This isn't funny."

"No," he said, his grin fading. "But neither is any of this. So maybe we focus on getting me some clothes that don't scream 'fresh from the morgue' before we worry about your new career as a human glow stick?"

I sighed, but he had a point. One problem at a time. And right now, the biggest problem was standing next to me in coffee-stained scrubs, trying very hard to remember how breathing worked.

The morning sun hit us as we emerged onto the street. Time to find some clothes, figure out this glowing hand situation, and hopefully not get arrested for grave robbery in the process.