She wouldn’t stop crying. I couldn’t blame her; no six-year-old should have to watch their next-door neighbor be ripped to pieces and eaten by a mob of zombies, while her father desperately tried to get the minivan started.
She was still crying when we got to the farm to pick up her grandparents. She was still crying when we got to grandpa’s cabin in the hills to hole up.
We tried comforting her, her mother held her, told her everything would be all right, it was no use. All she would say between sobs was, “But it was my Birthday!”
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