Warm Bodies (Warm Bodies, #1)

by Isaac Marion

but I don’t have a name anymore. Hardly any of us do. We lose them like car keys, forget them like anniversaries.

“Just . . . ate,” M says, frowning at me a little. “Two days . . . ago.” I grab my stomach again. “Feel empty. Feel . . . dead.” He nods. “Marr . . . iage.”

He sighs and walks out, bumping into me hard on his way past, but I’m not sure if it was intentional. He is, after all, a zombie.

I shake my head apologetically, but I wince at her use of the word “human.” I’ve never liked that differentiation. She is Living and I’m Dead, but I’d like to believe we’re both human. Call me an idealist.

If no one realizes I’m a zombie, they may still call in a report on the stylish lunatic roaming the streets in a fitted shirt and tie.