The man sitting in the confession booth gives an almost inaudible sigh, as if even he isn't quite sure how he got to this point. His blonde hair is uncharacteristically neat, complimented by a suit well tailored to (as his grandmother always phrased it) his husky frame.

"Forgive me father, for I have -" the next word comes out rusty, an old heirloom that hasn't passed through his teeth in quite a while - ". . . sinned."

He furrowed his eyebrows - math never was his strong suit, there's a very good reason he chose law school . . .

"What's eighteen plus six?"

Silence from the metal grate. In lieu of clerical assistance, Foggy works it out for himself.

"In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. My last confession was twenty-four years ago."

He sits with that for a moment, mulling it over. Twenty-four years.

"I stopped going to Church when I was thirteen. Convinced my parents I needed to spend Sunday mornings studying. They were never militant about it - I think they were happy to have one less kid to force into a suit and tie."

More silence.

"This is Father Lantom, right?" Foggy had a vague enough memory of his upbringing to know you weren't supposed to ask questions like that. He stared into the grate, like a convict awaiting the judge's sentence.

A short pause, and then: "Yes."

Foggy looked down at his hands, fingernails chewed and uneven. He twiddled his thumbs. It didn't help.

"I miss him."

There, he said it. No taking it back now. Another of his grandmother's saying floated through his brain - "Words are like toothpaste: once you squeeze them out, you can't put them back in." When he was six, he'd tried to prove her wrong - squeezed out a whole tube into the bathroom sink and spent ages trying to shove the stuff back in with a butter knife, bit by bit. It didn't work.

This is what his brain does when he's nervous, Foggy knows - distracts him with anecdotes, little bits and pieces of memories, tries to throw up as much imagery as possible to get him to stop dwelling on whatever unpleasant topic is at hand. A good defense strategy when you've got a guilty client.

"Is this Mr. Nelson?" Father Lantom had a wonderful voice. Soft, yet firm - comforting. Of course, that's to be expected - Matt loved him, didn't he, and Matt could never stand to be around annoying voices -

"Yes. It's . . . it's me." His own voice is not nearly as impressive. It sounds . . . unsure. Foggy never liked his voice very much. He never liked a lot of things about himself.

"It is not a sin to mourn the passing of a friend," Father Lantom said. "It is a very natural thing. It was almost six months ago, was it not?"

178 days, actually. Foggy wondered if Father Lantom was keeping as close a count as he was.

"Yes, six months. But . . ." Foggy had to be careful here - Lantom somehow knew of Matt's death, sure, but he probably didn't know the rest. "What if I could have saved him? What if I could have . . ."

He trailed off. Can't risk letting information slip. In the end, Matt's secrets ended up outliving him.

This pause was the longest yet. The confessions of Foggy's childhood didn't have so much silence. Stealing an extra dessert, playing hookie - life was simpler back then.

"Foggy, I knew about your friend's . . . activities. He was a man of a strict moral code, and I sincerely believe that you could not have dissuaded him from what he believed to be his duty." Lantom's words fell like stones. Despite his best efforts, a small flash of anger hit Foggy. He told his priest, he told Claire - how many other people did Matt decide to clue in before he told his business parter, his 'best friend', his -

He tried to quell it. This is his priest. You know how Matt was about religion. Of course he told him.

"What if I'd got him help? Therapy? A psych ward? A - a jail cell?" Foggy cringed at those last words. "I know how it sounds. But isn't prison better than dead?"

This time, it is Father Lantom's turn to give a small sigh. It doesn't sound exasperated - it sounds tired. It sounds like the sigh of someone who, at some point, had asked himself the same questions. "From what I knew of Matthew, he would not have appreciated that sentiment. It is difficult for me to determine what happened, but from recent events, I suspect that he gave his life to save many others. That is a righteous thing to do."

"But I probably could've done something. Right? Something to - to stop him from . . . going out that day."

"The decision was never solely in your hands. Many others knew his . . . identity, too."

True enough. Claire, the weird old blind guy, those three other lunatics - somehow, thinking of all the people who were happy to let Matt do his thing didn't make Foggy feel any better.

Lantom paused. "But yes, I suppose so."

"OK." Foggy stared at the ceiling. The wooden bench he sat on was slightly worn down in the center, from all the penitents who had sat here over the years. He wondered how much time Matt had spent in this very position, agonizing over his past, his present, his future. Suddenly, the booth seemed awfully claustrophobic. "How many Hail Marys is that?"

It came out snarkier than Foggy intended, and he felt regret almost immediately. Despite his best efforts, he liked Lantom.

The elderly priest didn't seem to take offense. "I can assign you no penance for this specific grievance, simply because I do not believe you have committed a sin. Do you have any other confessions to make?"

"No." Yeah, right. But he had to be at the office in half an hour, and Foggy had a feeling 24 years of sins would take a little longer than that. Foggy moved to stand up, then paused.

"Do you think he went to Heaven?" he asked. "I mean, you know. If there is a Heaven." (He shouldn't have said that second part. Matt was always telling him he needed a better filter between his brain and his mouth.)

"That is in the Lord's hands, not our own." Here, Lantom's soft speaking voice gave way to something unyielding - something with more authority. A little more kindly, he added: "Matthew is at peace. Of that, I am sure."

Foggy wanted to believe that. He really did. But "Matt" and "peace" were two words that seemed odd in such close proximity.

He ducked out of the booth. The pews were as empty as they had been when he'd arrived - Thursday morning isn't exactly prime time for churchgoers.

The Devil of Hell's Kitchen, in Heaven. No, that was wrong. Matt belonged in Heaven, that was for sure - but Foggy couldn't shake the firm belief that the Devil belonged down under, and not in the Australian sense of the word.

Walking outside, the cool shadows of the church gave way to harsh winter light. Foggy squinted, eyes adjusting to the never-ending bustle of the city. He brushed invisible lint off his suit jacket, more out of habit than anything else. Heaven, Hell - he didn't think it mattered much. In the light of day, surrounded by honking taxis, the idea of an afterlife seemed very dubious. Matt was gone - not floating around on a cloud somewhere, but really, truly, profoundly gone.

Six months. And what everyone said about loss was wrong. It hadn't gotten any easier.

He missed him.