What's eating you alive might help you to survive. - Ted Leo and the Pharmacists

Fourteen was the first time he was on his back, unmoving and heavy. This unbearable state had first blossomed in his peers like putrid flowers. The sticky tendrils latched onto him next and squeezed until his lungs gradually collapsed in on themselves, dragging him down with them. He lay awake in bed for nights on end, unseeing eyes turned towards the ceiling, and willed himself to breathe. In his head, Stick's words echoed over and over:

'Get up.' A kick to the stomach. 'Get up!'

Unlike many of his peers, one afternoon he finally did.

Mrs. Susan Michaels was a small woman in her forties with flowery perfume. She was shivering and sweating when Matt and Foggy came in to greet her. Her arm was handcuffed to the table like Karen's had been on the day they had all met. Now, just as then, the cuffing seemed inappropriate. This woman was scared witless. Matt held his hand out in the general direction of her uncuffed left arm. She shook it with a clammy hand.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Michaels. My name is Matt Murdock."

Foggy held out his hand next. "Foggy Nelson. We represent Nelson and Murdock: Attorneys at Law."

"We're here because you were referred to us as a potential client," added Matt. They both sat down on the other side of the table.

"You're the lawyers the policeman was talking about?" Her voice was soft, and wavered when she spoke.

"The very same," said Matt.

"The policeman. . .he said you would help me."

"If your case is a good fit for our firm, we will do everything in our power to help you," said Foggy.

"Why don't you start out by telling us why you're here, Mrs. Michaels?" asked Matt.

Mrs. Michaels took a shaky breath. "My son, Jeffrey, was found dead last night. He was floating in the East River. Police said when they came by the house this morning that it looked like a homicide." She started to choke back tears. "My son was such a sweet boy. . ."

"Are you a suspect in the murder, Mrs. Michaels?" asked Foggy, softly. The woman's tears escalated. They flowed down her face in hot streams that gave the air a salty tang of despair. Matt tilted his head ever so slightly to zone in on her heartbeat. It beat steady and fast like a hummingbird's wings. Nervous but truthful.

"I would - I would never want to hurt my son," she said, wiping the tears from her eyes. They were fast replaced by more. "I was so careful to protect him from anyone that might hurt him. There are sick people in this world who have it out for kids like him. You see it on the news and just pray it never happens to you." She exhaled a trembling breath. "My son had autism."

Oh, fuck.

"Mrs. Michaels, would you excuse us for a moment? My associate and I need to discuss your case amongst ourselves." He gripped Foggy's arm like a vice on their way out.

"I swear I didn't know anything," said Foggy before Matt could say a word. His heart leapt - a lie. Matt gave him an intimidating look that had frightened many criminals on the streets of Hell's Kitchen. Admirably, Foggy didn't cower. "Ok that isn't true - God that face is not necessary, Matt - Brett had just told me that it was a case of interest that involved a murder. I had no idea -"

"We can't take this case, Foggy," said Matt, shaking his head. "I can't take this case."

"Brett thinks she is innocent."

"And if she isn't? You heard her in there - you see it on the news all the time. It's usually the parents that kill them, Foggy!" He ran his fingers through his hair, pulling it, wishing that he had something to hit or -

"Was she lying about anything she said?" asked Foggy, interrupting Matt's stress spiral."Because you would know. If she is, I promise that we can walk out right now."

Matt deflated; it was difficult to be angry in the face of reasonable questions. He rubbed his eyes under his glasses, feeling wrung out. "She wasn't lying," he admitted. "Everything she said was true - or at least she believed it was."

"If that's the case then I think we have a duty to defend her." said Foggy. "Otherwise the real sickos who did this could get off scott free and they could do it again."

"If she's guilty -"

"Then we negotiate a plea bargain. At worst, we're the lawyers who told her to admit guilt."

"And at best we're the lawyers who opened up a real investigation," murmured Matt.

"I think we should take the case," said Foggy, voice full of unwavering conviction.

At once, the sparse 'bad idea' signs in Matt's mind flickered into rare neon brilliance. He could have - should have - walked away right then. Instead, he flicked a switch and powered them down. This case was too important to succumb to weakness.

"I agree," said Matt. "Let's do it."

Matt's dad rarely talked about his mom. He was honest when Matt asked if she was dead - 'No, Matty, your mom's alive' - but his answers never stretched beyond that. For nine years, that answer was enough. He loved his father, loved the smell of his scotch and blood and the feel of his bruised and callous hands. His face was scratchy on Matt's palms; there were hills and valleys of scars all over it. They had a home in each other, and that was all that mattered.

On his tenth birthday, Matt decided that he wanted answers anyway. Being in double-digits meant something. He was practically an adult now and deserved adult answers to adult questions. So, after he and his father had both eaten a piece of cake from the nearby corner store, Matt said, "Dad, can we talk about mom?"

His dad's heart rate increased. This knowledge of his anxiety was entirely new to Matt. It was not information that was easy to divulge. He sighed.

"I suppose you're old enough now. What do you want to know, Matty?"

"What was she like?"

"She was a very. . .different sort of woman," said Jack, gently. "Wrapped you up in her world until you couldn't tell left from right. Loved you like you were the only man alive. Beautiful and smart - I tell you, if you grow up good looking it's from her side of the family." He tapped Matt's chin with his knuckle. "She loved you a lot too."

"Why did she leave?"

"She said she was sick and didn't know what to do. I could tell she was in a lot of pain and was scared and I didn't want her to stay that way. So I said if she needed to go, she could go. Thought she would come back but. . .well it doesn't matter. We have each other, don't we, champ?"

Matt grinned. "Always, dad."

Matt was pulled taut that night, too wired to to sit comfortably inside his skin. He stood on the roof of his apartment complex, suited up and sniffing the air. The wet trash stench of the East River was unmistakable. Cars and bicycles rushed over the bridge, New York City fast, an echoing electric 'swish' as each vehicle passed. Pedestrians strolled on the walking path, quiet and unseen. There were a lot of suicides that went unnoticed by most people on the Queensboro bridge.

Matt was not most people.

It didn't take very long for Mrs. Michaels' arrest to become highly publicized. A mother killing her own child was sensational, sexy. Within minutes of the news breaking, there were hashtags on Twitter. Matt was sniffing the East River for a single thing: copycats. So far, there was nothing. Hopefully this would be an isolated instance.

Logically, focusing on the East River was useless. Even if there were copycats, they probably wouldn't operate from the Queensboro bridge. Obviously they would get caught. Yet Matt's brain was holding onto the East River with a vice grip, a place where something Happened. He was tied to it now, as if with string.

A harsh wind blew in from the direction of the Hudson. It made his skin sting with its chemical humidity. From a distance, he heard freight ships coming in. They cut through the water ungracefully, rolling it as if it were brought to a boil. These were the biggest freight ships which signified one thing - it was five AM. When he had come back from rounds (no punches thrown - his costume was enough nowadays to get kids running scared) the two am ships had been coming to shore. He had been standing on top of his building for at least three hours, entirely lost in thought.

It was definitely time for him to go to bed. As Matt climbed down from the ledge, the joints of his knees and elbows cracked. He realized he was shivering; October was not an ideal time to stand outside without moving for three hours. The inside of his apartment was temperate and soothing, a tailored environment for automatic sleep. Strangely, going inside didn't make him feel tired tonight.

Matt stripped down to his boxers. He folded his suit, and carefully put it in its box. Then he got in bed, and waited for exhaustion to arrive.

It never came.