My father had a very strange belief that I will always remember. He never spoke of god, never even opened a bible or went to church. It seemed to me that he only believed in the devil and the devil alone. Always telling me how the devil is all around us, and how the devil can take control of us. It kept me in order as a kid, but as an adult, it changed me.

I know now, as an adult, that the devil is real. All evil will have the devil perched right on its shoulder, watching every motion like a hawk. The devil, one with no remorse and no regret, has no limit to what it is capable of. Once the devil has someone on his list, no amount of good deeds can take them off. They are doomed to be sent straight down to the pits of hell, tortured in an eternity of misery and anguish.

How do I, of all people, know who the devil is? Why is it that only I even know what he looks like? Where he is? What he wants? Even…what he's done?

I know everything about him, for I am the devil. And I dare anyone to prove me otherwise.

1961. Manhattan, New York.

I woke up in a hospital, the Anastasia holding me down. That unique "empty" smell and the heart monitor next to me beeping away was a dead giveaway keeping me alive. Darkness was all I could see. My eyes were open and still… darkness. I couldn't even see that there was someone else right there next to me.

"Matt, you awake?" Foggy was sitting in the visitor's chair, level to the bed I was on.

Good old Foggy Nelson. The perfect example of a best friend.

I tried to talk firm, but my throat was on fire. Probably the worst sore throat I've ever had. All I could force out was a ruff grunt. My chest felt like it was full of broken glass. Ribs weren't ticklish, that's for sure.

He had trouble talking, or maybe it was trouble accepting what happened to me. "I'm- I'm glad to see you made it through. The doctor said you had too many close calls on the table."

I was able to clear my throat, but it only made the stinging worse. "What happened?"

I might as well have asked him why birds fly. Almost thought I passed out again until he answered after a good while. "…Your dad, Matt. He didn't make it."

Now for round two.

It was a tough pill to swallow, especially with a sore throat like mine. I asked for another. "And me?"

I already knew the answer. But when there are chances in life, it's always best to double check. Even if the odds are against you. And odds…they hated my guts like no tomorrow.

"You took a knife in the eyes, Matt. The doctors tried. But… there's just no way to fix something like that. You won't ever see again."

He broke down like a mother, giving a guy like me too much sympathy. He hugged me, practically lifting me off the hospital bed. I didn't care about the pain. I didn't care about any "complications". I just wanted him to stop feeling bad.

Foggy wasn't the kind of guy to tear up, and I knew he didn't want me to see him do it. He didn't have to worry about that anymore. You can cry old pal, just let it out. Think of the good times. Remember back then and let me do the worrying.

It was a whisper in the ear, low enough to hide his feelings. "…I'm so sorry, Matt."

Don't worry Foggy…so am I.

The doctors kept reminding me I was in a hospital, like I had amnesia or something. Reminding me lies. It wasn't a hospital for me, it was a rehab. Just because I couldn't see didn't mean my teeth stopped itching. They didn't even think about testing me the entire time; good for me. At least luck still visited once in a while.

It forgot me when I had to answer million dollar questions like, "Who can pay for your father's funeral?" and "You have insurance, right?" They must like the taste of bullshit because they ate it all up every time. Dad was ordered to be cremated and they'll get their money in payments. I don't blame them for not wanting more from me. Who wouldn't feel sorry for a freshly blinded eighteen year-old?

All the other people that know me besides Foggy. They wouldn't .

He visited every chance he got, and ran me out of there as soon as possible. Saved me money on "blind guy training" and babied me through each new step through my new black world. I got the hang of it. It was like stumbling to the bathroom at midnight, all about mapping out your surroundings. Inside a building was easy, but going outside was something on another level.

I didn't mind living with him and his mom, sleeping on his rough old couch. But his wing wasn't big enough for me to hide under it. I told him during the "obstacle course" that he made with half burned tires and boxes in a vacant lot. He guided me to a wall when I finished through it with flying colors, getting me in my comfort zone. For once, it was good to have my back against the wall.

"I gotta move back to my old place," I told him plainly.

I could swear he got on his knees to beg. Might as well have. "You can stay here all you want. Honestly Matt, we don't mind."

His shinning voice was easy to follow, letting me put a hand on his shoulder. "Thanks Foggy, but I can't be holding you back anymore. That's what the training is for right?"

It got a thick chuckle out of him. "I guess. You sure about it?"

"Of course. I'm a big boy now. Besides, your mom has enough people to take care of."

"My sisters already moved out, remember? I'm the only one still living in the house."

I smiled, not sure if I was facing him. "You're plenty."

He was convinced about me wanting to get to my old life, even if I wasn't. I had to push myself down that hill to get back on my feet. He had his life…and I had mine. Packed up my things, got in the car, and dropped back to the bottom of Hell's Kitchen. It was a long car ride, even though he only lives a few blocks away.

No use to sight-see. I knew what kind of place we were driving through. Whores, drunks, cops, thugs, dealers, doers; everything wrong stirring in the envious American melting pot. The witch's brew of sin and everyone around me drank, asking for more. Foggy was probably the only one here that spit it back into the caldron and pissed in it for good measure.

Not a saint and not a sinner. Just a poor guy that winded up with me as a friend.

He finally said something once we got to my place. "So how are you going to do it, Matt?"

There's a lot of things I gotta do.

"Do what?"

"Pay for everything, get around. It won't be easy you know."

Was it easy before?

"I'll be fine. You can't walk if you don't get on your feet."

And you can't see if you don't open your eyes.

He almost seemed disappointed, like I was letting him down. It wasn't that. He just wanted to do more than he could. The smell of rain on asphalt snuck in the car when he opened the door. "Just give me a call when you need anything then, okay?"

I got out, cane first. It was a good thing he parked over the curb instead of next to it. Finally his bad driving had a use. "Don't worry; I still remember your number."

"I'll just help you get your things then."

I made my way up the short steps, getting into the apartments. A month away and it still smelled like rotting French fries. People stomped and shouted upstairs, same married couple in the same fights as always. Wind flew by as dozens of kids stormed down the stairs and out the door, all from the new tenants. Something in me wanted to leave when I entered the first floor, so I leaned up on my cane to pipe it down.

"I got it all," Foggy said as he walked by, "Like always, follow my voice."

Put a leash on me why don't ya?

"Right behind ya Foggy."

Steps were no problem thanks to the banister. The only worry there was an empty beer bottle finding its way under my foot. It's happened before, but thankfully, not today. I held a hand out to the wall as we circled up the next set of stairs, getting a hand full of plaster. Sliding over, I reached the wallpaper.

No surprise, this place was full of cracks and holes. A bad mirror image for the people living inside. It was cheap for many reasons and that was one of the thousand. Bad area, bad conditions, bad wiring, bad people; it was a Santa Claus list all starting with "bad".

My room was on the left, down the lonely hall. Baby cries seeped from behind closed doors, single mothers too cranked out to care. The Italian couple still argued after I was gone for three weeks. The little things we look past flare out when you can't see them. I smelled the pad of a broken soul when we stopped in front of a door.

"Got your key?"

Still can't believe I had my key on me when my world turned dim. Surprised my pockets weren't picked clean too.

The door was made for a blind guy, making enough noise for a hobo to offer new hinges. I got in first, letting Foggy close the door. Mold, dust, spilled booze, burned food. Everything you needed for that shitty apartment smell. Place was a mess, fast food wrappers and bottles cluttering the walk space. Foggy wasn't surprised, he knew I lived that way.

It's a man's logic: Why clean if it's going to get dirty again?

I waited at the kitchen counter, sitting on one of the about-to-break stools. Foggy tossed my suitcase on my bed, returning to the kitchen. Papers slipped on my elbow, set there on the counter by someone else. He took them out and flipped through them, reading off the envelopes.

"Let's see. Catalogs, scam offers… and rent."

"What, no get well soon letters?

He tossed the wad into a wastebasket, keeping the rent to rub it in my face. "I don't like this idea. The rent's got me worried, Matt. Ain't you?"

I'm shaking like a leaf.

"It's not a problem Foggy. Not in the slightest."

"What about food?"

"I still got a mouth."

It was a battle between how many smart-ass remarks I could dish out and how many problems he could pull out into the light. Like two lone kings sliding for a checkmate, one of us had to let it go. He dropped it, no use in getting through a thick skull like mine.

"Fine. You know what? Fine. Don't say I didn't try." He became soft hearted after a quick sigh, like he remembered we were on the same side. "You still want to hang out later on?"

"I kind of want to settle myself in here for today. You free later on this week?"

"Yeah, I'm free. Call whenever you're good." He showed himself out, stopping at the doorway. "I hope you know what you're doing Matt."

"Don't worry…I do."

It was cold. Damn cold.

The place felt empty once he walked out, shutting the door to seal me in. The rain pattering on the grim- stained window lead me away from it, towards my dad's room. Third dresser draw, under his clothes. No use in pulling out the shirts and pants all neat and tidy, I was sure his bed was left in the mess he kept it in. The wooden board pretending to be the bottom was next, also tossed on the bed.

Like a pirate finding Spanish gold, I smiled at my newfound claim. Dad's cocaine stash, still there and untouched. Either his buyers didn't know he was dead yet or his little hiding place was more clever than I gave credit for. That timid rubber smell called to me, seeping through their pill-like capsules. My heart already raced and I didn't even take it yet.

I don't need it! Control yourself Matt, keep it together! You can do this, think of something else. Just don't give in!

I clutched a paper bag in my hand, using the will of a stone wall to keep its contents inside.

Just sell. Don't use. Don't bring the old habit back. Don't feed the beast.

Hands shaking, I patted my way to the door, tapping with the rhythm of a Morris code clicker. Few minutes later, I found my way out of the claustrophobic hell hole. Then it hit me like a ton of bricks, making me slam the door back shut. Like a beaten dog I sulked over to the cut-up couch and lay down. My flawless plan was foolproof, and now that I shinned a new light on it, there were more holes than Swiss cheese.

How the hell am I going to survive out there?

Dealing in an alley is like putting your hand in a piranha pit. If I can't see where the fish are biting, I can't get my hand out of the way. Blind, young, unarmed. I was a walking target. I'd get swindled every time a wad of bills was handed to me.

I could ask Foggy for help, that was, if he wasn't a good soul. But I couldn't do that to him. I'd break my heart if something bad happened to him, especially if it was my fault. The argument with Foggy earlier was continuing on with me in my own head, trying to fill square holes with circles. Time went by, and all I got was a head ache.

Fresh air was what I needed, or since this was Hell's Kitchen, a sorry excuse for a substitute. I left the building, without the nose powder. Right when I got outside, sirens flew by in a screaming swing. Nothing new for this street. Foggy and I would always play a drinking game at night by taking a sip every time a cop car siren passed by.

We'd get shitfaced in an hour on the weekends.

I smelled a hobo before I heard him begging. Old, sick, drunk. Everything wrong for a guy to be. "Spare some change?"

"Sorry pal. Fresh out."

"God bless ya son."

Back at 'cha.

I'd feel bad for the old timer if I wasn't in the same spot he was. The only thing I had over people like him was a soon-to-rot room about to slip away from me. I was going to be like him soon, using a newspaper "blanket" by my trashcan "heater" in my alley "bedroom". I had to find a way to escape that fate, and I had to find it soon. Dad wasn't the type to pay rent on time, and our landlord already threatened to give the boot three unpaid months back.

I needed a stiff drink to send me into an endless sleep, but for now, coffee would do.

The little nameless coffee shop by the street corner, a place everyone goes to forget about life. It's usually not full since the older folk prefer to hold a brown bottle over a white mug. Smoke and brewing coffee welcomed me in, nobody else did. I found a good spot near the back, a soft booth that was unoccupied. It was away from the talking college kids and old people filling their mornings with crossword puzzles.

I've been in here before. Good atmosphere, good music, good service. Coffee was okay. Cheap, the way I like it. The waiter was something else.

"What can I get for you hon'?"

A natural born sweetheart with a smell as sweet as her scratchy voice. An inspiration for what every girl should be.

"Coffee for me. Black."

"Sure thing."

I envied her, able to stay upbeat and positive without a care in the world. When her heels faded back into the clamor of laughter behind me, I decided to occupy my time with a notebook and a pen.

It was back in the day when I would spend class time doodling on the papers they handed to me instead of doing my work. I couldn't see, but it didn't hurt to practice mapping out surroundings. Where to start the lines and where to stop them was a good way to get the experience. My hand took over, making whatever picture it wanted. I had no idea what was on the paper, not in the slightest.

"Here's your coffee, sugar."

The waitress came back with a hot cup of joe steaming the heat up, letting me know it was to my right. I set my notepad aside. "Thank you."

She had no problem inching the notepad sideways to get a good look at my quick sketch. "Say, that's pretty good!"

I took a sip. Like liquid fire, perfect for me. "Really? Mind telling me what it is?"

She gave me a playful scoff, voice full of sass. "Well you should know! Aren't you the one who drew it?" Gears cranked in her empty little head. She saw the cane and the sunglasses, putting two and two together. The embarrassment escaped her in laughs. "Oh, gosh, I-I'm sorry. For the life of me, I didn't know you were blind."

"It's okay, no worries."

"You know, you can make a lot of money with a trick like that. It's not every day you can meet a blind artist. We'll let me know if you need anything. I'll make sure to hum so you know I'm by."

All the worrying weighing me down disappeared right there. Chugging down the coffee, I dropped all the change I had on the table and left. I would have given the girl more if I had it. She gave me a million dollar idea and deserved a cut. My ticket to easy street was almost in my hand already.

In fact, I could have sworn the rain had stopped then and there.

I painted day and night nonstop all week. I couldn't stop. I didn't want to.

Money was the drive, and it was good as any. At least I didn't have to worry about the electricity bill, a small plus. I was getting short on cash, started to starve. Two days without anything to eat and you start losing your speed. The cold winter coming up didn't help at all, forced to shiver under the covers with two jackets on.

I couldn't afford to have my clothes get covered in paint, doing laundry nearly impossible for me. In the lowest part of town, help was more rare than an honest face. My dad's clothes still had his "fatherly" smell to them, and I was reminded of him every time I breathed it in. His memory clung on to the space behind my eyes, getting my blood boiled.

They weren't the best of memories for a kid.

The time I spent painting and savaging wasn't called living. It's called torture. Hunger's teeth bit inside me. Paranoid kept me waiting for the landlord to have the mover boys ready to toss me out of there. Doing something I wasn't passionate about and doing it all day had my head spinning.

But in the end, it was worth it.

It didn't take long to get my paintings its own gallery, Manhattan full of the artsy type. People here had a taste for abstract things, the unreal and the uncertain. I was sure my art was abstract enough since all colors feel the same. The title "blind artist" was a little bell that called over the fat cats in the neighborhood. They had money that I needed, and they practically tossed it at me.

No matter what I painted, it was the same deal. Auctions full of buyers all willing to spend over hundreds of dollars on a Matt Murdock original. There were nonbelievers in the audience every once in a while, some wise-cracker claiming I was a hoax. All I had to do was lift my shades and show off my dead glass eyes to calm them down. It would have gotten on my nerve, only if it wasn't so fun to put idiots in their place.

The hospital: paid. The rent: normal. The cash flow: steady. I was climbing a mountain straight to the good life.

To keep it good, I had to leave the hell hole to a better place. Too many bad memories and the money to get up the rope forced me to. I was no millionaire, but I wasn't a low life either. I was right there in the middle, in my comfort zone. Plans to move out were put in gear right away.

The movers did all the work, having me supervise. I gave them one order and they gleefully followed. "Take everything in my room. Throw away the rest."

We didn't have any keep-sakes or family heirlooms. The closest thing to that was my dad's old stash, a remnant of the family business. All of it was in my suitcase, held firmly in my hand. I never let it go, not for a second. Once they left me alone in my new apartment, I finally eased up on the grip.

It was a new experience to actually buy things for once, something I never did in the past. All my clothes were snagged off the rack and all our furniture was found in junk-heaps. It was a new start, a clean slate. I was given a chance to give my name a meaning and I did it. Now it meant more than loathly street rat.

It meant something good. Something respectable.

I got letters from admirers writing whatever the hell they wanted to write. I assumed it was all positive feedback, I didn't know what they wrote. Asking for help was the last thing on my mind. My imagination filled the pages for me, far better than the actual truth. Just in case there was a sour puss blowing off their steam on me, I didn't want to bother.

There was a day were I found my old guitar in my room, tucked away in the closest by the movers. Back when everybody wanted to be Elvis, I would mess around with it and never go anywhere. The phase died out since my hands were too jittery to keep a beat. Listening to TV got old after a few days and so I took up music to pass the time. Sitting on the window sill, day or night, I gave the street something to listen to.

Time left me. I had no idea what day or even what year I was in. I fell asleep when I was tired and tried my best to go out when it was daylight. If I didn't feel the sunlight, I didn't leave the stoop. The cloudy days tricked me too many times.

I painted a picture after a while. Focused on the brushstrokes and the directions. I even traced my fingers around the canvas to get an idea. The next day, I sent it to girl at the gallery to take a look at it. She was excited to see it as usual.

Good for her.

The payphone box was warmer than the rest of the apartment building. Anxiety was clear in my voice. "So, is it good?"

She gasped to herself, still admiring the art in front of her. The line cracked and popped, her switching shoulders to hold the phone. "Mr. Murdock, I'd have to say this is your best yet! You really are filling up my choice of favorites."

"That's good to know-"

Not really.

"-so what's the painting?"

That caught her off guard. "Excuse me?"

"The painting. What is it of? Is it a sunset or an animal or something?"

She was amused at the line of guesses, laughing at it. "Mr. Murdock, oh you are such a card! Abstract art isn't a simple picture of the real world. It's the way you use the color and the placing, creating a feeling of passion and new light into the viewer-"

You're lucky this is over the phone.

"-There isn't anything to see exactly if that's what you're asking. But if you're asking what I see then there is no point."

"And why's that?"

"Well everyone has their own way of seeing things, Mr. Murdock."

Was that a wise crack?

"Give me your opinion on what you see then."

"I see… a place of tranquility comforting someone, giving the person a sense of peace. What makes it interesting is that there is a second figure in the background, far away in the background. For them the place is not tranquility, but a kind of horror."

"Thank you very much."

"Why, you're very welcome. Now, what shall I do with it?"

"Sell it."

Toss it in the trash. Burn it in a barrel. Flush it down the toilet. I don't care, just get rid of it.

I got out of the booth, back into the apartment's main entrance. The mailboxes filling the wall beside me clatter from people getting their mail. Something bumped into me from the side. Something soft, a teenage girl's arm. The mail in my hand clattered to the ground, hitting the hard tile.

She wasn't too happy.

"Hey, watch it buddy! What are ya, blind?!"

Yes.

She covered her mouth, muffling her giggles. "Oh golly, you are! I-I'm so sorry, it was a reflex for me. I-"

I waved a hand at it. "It's fine, really. If I were you, I would've said the same thing."

Heat came off her face, cheeks red in embarrassment. It was cute, if only I could see it. "I guess I'm more cranky than I thought in the morning!"

It's morning?

"I'll take it as a good morning then."

The girl giggled childishly and suddenly snapped a finger. "You know, I think I've seen you before. Yeah, that's right! You're the guy that plays the guitar early-ass in the morning!"

I didn't hear any complaints.

"It's a good sound to walk off to school with. Kind of gets stuck in my head during class."

"Glad you like it."

A guy called out to her from up the stairs. "Elektra, come on! I didn't make you breakfast so it can get cold!"

"Coming daddy!"

I loved the way she said daddy.

"Well, that's my cue to skedaddle."

"Same here.

"I'll see you around?"

That makes one of us.

I walked away, finding the banister with ease. "Sure thing."

"Hey wait! You forgot your mail!"

"Are any of them checks or bills?"

She flipped through them. "No, just letters."

"Toss them in the trash for me, will ya?"

She was rightfully confused. "Uh, sure. You got it."

So… her name is Elektra. A pretty name. No, that's not saying enough. It's downright beautiful.

I had something to count the days with now. I would know it was morning when Elektra said hello in a hurry from down below and it was after school when she was coming in with her friends. On the weekends, she'd leave with them, off to somewhere good. Elektra was my window to the world and I looked out it every chance I got. On some days, I could swear she'd bump into me on purpose up and down the stairs, reminding me of the day we first met.

It didn't take one encounter and we were all set. It took weeks of walking by, saying hi, and random chatting. Living in the same apartment as her made it easy and being confined to my room made it hard. Somehow, we became good friends. It happened a lot faster since I was 21.

A knock on the door. I'd dozed off during the day like so many times before, getting too comfortable on my new couch. The knocks were long and slow, knowing I had to use them to find the door. The air flew at me when the door opened and I'd know that flowery smell anywhere.

"Ely. What brings you here?"

"A boring Saturday."

Elektra was the restless type, unable to stand a quiet room. It was never quiet with her around.

"Take whatever you want from the fridge. Help yourself."

Bottles clanked. She took one of the beers. "Thanks Matt, you're my hero."

I didn't need to drink. She did. Nothing was wrong with her, she was just like any teenage girl.

I got back on the couch, listening to her drink it all in one go. "Thirsty?"

"No."

"Want me to lend you an ear?"

Beads in her hair clattered, tied in with the long braids. "It's nothing."

She didn't want to say what bothered her. Seeing me, her troubles seemed inferior. It was like coming over to my place was a way to tell herself that she has it better. I don't blame her one bit.

The empty bottle in her hand clanked on the counter. "So what did you do today?"

Spent all day thinking about you.

"Not much. You?"

She sighed, getting out of the kitchen. "Nothing. Just one of those lazy days."

"I hear ya."

"I'm curious Matt."

"Shoot."

"How do you do it?"

There's a lot of things I do.

"Do what?"

"I don't know. Take care of yourself, go shopping, keep yourself from getting bored. All those kinds of things."

How do I do it? By being oblivious about the real picture here. I never knew what a normal life was and I never will. They say it's best not to know, and I'm as clueless as a perfect murder.

"Being blind doesn't stop anyone from living. All it does is force you to find another way around something. In a way, it opens the mind to new routes."

"I mean, you're never scared?"

I was done being scared before I could count above ten.

"Of what?"

"I mean the streets are dangerous, especially since we live in Manhattan. I hear about people getting hit by cars all the time and they can see it coming. I couldn't imagine being in your shoes."

My shoes are too big for most people.

"It gets a bit useless to worry about things like that. That's just for me though. You have plenty to worry about. The night's a dangerous place for a girl your age."

"It's dangerous for anyone. My dad keeps me up at night with the worst stories."

Maybe I was a part of those stories back in the old days.

She didn't say anything for a quick second, so I decided to take the reigns. "I want to know something about you."

It took her by surprise, me telling instead of asking. It was a good kind of surprise. "What do you want to know? There's not much to me."

There's only one girl where curiosity drives you crazy. She was that girl.

"I want to know what you look like."

For a moment, I thought she was heading out the door. My heart sank from the thought. Suddenly, the couch seat next to me pulled me down, the smell of her hair strong as ever. There was only one way for a blind guy to know what someone looks like and she knew exactly how to do it. She didn't just allow me, she lead me.

"Give me your hands."

She took my hands with hers, setting them up in front of her face. There was a pause, like she was thinking. "Something wrong?"

"No." She let go, letting me help myself.

Small, firm, soft, a round child-like face. Her skin was a little oily, acne on her high cheeks. It was like polar opposites when I touched her small nose then her plump lips. My hands followed back up her scalp to trace her hair, long enough to reach down to her waist.

Once my hands started going down her soft hair, I felt her hands grab my head like it was going to fly away. "What are you doing?"

"I want to know how you look like too."

"But you can see me."

She gave me a laugh. "I know. But I like your way more."

Those few words made my heart flutter, our fate's line reeling us in closer. It was one of those interactions only the blind can enjoy. Having to touch someone to know how they look made it personal, showing interest. She knew I wanted to know her more, to get more involved in her life. To my surprise, she wanted the very same thing.

There was a knock on the door everyday after school, Elektra's good attitude lifting my spirits high. She wanted to be my caretaker, stuff like laundry and groceries. Things easier for her than for me. After a while, she'd start to spend more time with me than with her friends. Taking care of me didn't come free though.

I paid her for the effort, enough to make it worth her while. It gradually came to where after the week she closed the money in my hand.

"Keep it, Matt. Being near you is enough pay for me."

Please, you're too kind.

She grabbed my hand, taking me out into the night. "Come on, Matt. Let's get out of this crummy apartment and have ourselves a good time."

We both had the same taste for a good time: Drinking beer in a vacant lot and tossing rocks at the empty bottles.

"Come on, you can hit it!"

I took a swing, no success.

"That was close. You almost got it that time." It was her turn, same thing.

She laughed obnoxiously at her failure, the booze getting her in a good mood. I was still under control. Normal beers stopped having their effect on me years ago.

She pushed against me, smacking her forehead on my shoulder. "That was terrible!"

"And I thought I was blind."

She laughed harder, spitting beer all over the place. "Aw man! It came out of my nose!"

I pointed a finger in her direction. "You still got a little dripping right there. No there. No-"

She bumped her shoulder against mine. "Quit it, Matt! You big liar."

That's me. The big fake.

I hugged her tightly, making her hug back. She was warm, happy…alive. Everything I wanted her to be. She let go, but I still clung on.

"What's wrong, Matt?"

I rubbed my on her collar, breathing her in deep. "Nothing…I just wanted to hold you."

It's been three years since I've last seen Foggy. I didn't forget about him. There's no way I can forget about a guy like that. That's when you know the two of you are good friends: when one of them makes an effort to find them.

We hugged, making up for lost time. I was in a rush to fill in that gap with coffee table talk. "Come in, sit down. Is the place a mess?"

"No, not at all."

"Good, then I don't have to apologize for it." I heard him sit down on the couch. "Can I get you anything?"

"No Matt, I'm fine."

Something was on his mind, scratching at his skull.

I leaned up against the wall, holding myself over my cane. "So, what's the occasion? I sense a little stress in your voice. Money trouble? Family? Knock up a dame?"

He chuckled, trying to let out some of that thick tension inside him. "I started my first big case Matt."

"Hey, good for you. Glad to see you climbing the latter."

There was a pause from him, a quiet creaking in his throat. The hard push of air from his nose gave me a sinking feeling. "Matt…I really need your help."