Matt Murdock closed his braille law book and leaned back, rubbing his forehead. The Rule Against Perpetuities made no sense. "Lives in being plus twenty-one years." Why twenty-one years? Why not eighteen or twenty-five or a hundred years? And why did he need to know it, anyway? Even in his first year in law school, he knew he wasn't going to spend his legal career drawing up complicated wills and trusts for rich clients. He was going to be a criminal defense attorney. He sighed. It would probably be on the Property final, not to mention the bar exam two years from now. So he'd better learn it. But not tonight. He checked his watch: after midnight. He shoved the book to the back of the carrel the librarians reserved for his use, in a quiet corner of the law library. He stood up, unfolded his white cane, and made his way out of the building.

Once outside, he started to walk toward the graduate students' residence hall, where he shared a small apartment with his fellow law student and friend, Foggy Nelson. Then he changed his mind, sensing an opportunity. The campus wasn't empty; it never was, at any hour. But this was as good a time as any. There was little chance of encountering someone who would recognize him. And if someone he knew did catch a glimpse of him, well, they'd never believe it was him. He walked along West 116th Street and crossed Amsterdam Avenue. In front of him was a tree-lined path between two buildings. It was perfect for what he had in mind. Not only was it unlikely anyone would be in the buildings at this hour, the area was also poorly lighted. Foggy had complained to him many times about how dark it was and joked that Matt should be guiding him.

Matt took off his dark glasses and folded his cane and shoved them in his pockets. Then he tilted his head, letting his enhanced senses take in his surroundings. Once he got his bearings, he took off, sprinting along the path under the trees. For a few brief moments, he was free, no cane, no sighted guide to hold him back. Just the wind in his face, his muscles stretching as his strides lengthened, the sound and feel of his shoes pounding on the path, the oxygen filling his lungs. When he reached the end of the row of trees, he turned and sprinted back, then turned and ran down the path again. This time, he didn't stop. He kept going, emerging into a courtyard. He'd been told this open area was well-lighted, but he'd take his chances. He crossed it and ran along another tree-lined path between buildings. By the time he reached the far end, he was out of breath. He stopped there and stood with his head down, his hands on his knees, panting.

When he caught his breath, he raised his head and took off running again, back down the path. He was halfway across the courtyard when he heard the click of a door opening on his right. Shit. Someone was coming. He could only hope it wasn't anyone who knew him. He kept running, intent on blowing past them before he was recognized. Then he realized who it was.

"Matt?" Foggy asked.

Matt's blood ran cold. His instincts screamed at him to keep running, but after a few strides, he knew it was no good. He stopped and turned around to face his roommate.

"Hey, Foggy."

"What the hell, Matt? Are you tryin' to get yourself killed?"

"No," Matt said quietly. "Let's go back to the apartment. We can talk there. I'll explain everything." Well, maybe not everything.

"OK," Foggy said, sounding doubtful. He moved to Matt's side so Matt could take hold of his arm.

Shit. Foggy was going to be pissed. As they walked the short distance to the residence hall in silence, Matt considered his options. None of them were good. All of them ended with losing his best friend – who was he kidding? – his only friend. He might as well come clean. He could trust Foggy. He hoped. And it would be a relief not to have to lie to him anymore.

When they reached their apartment, Foggy took a seat on his bed. Matt pulled up a chair and turned it around so he could sit straddling it. He didn't know where to begin. Finally, he said, "Foggy, I – "

Foggy talked over him. "Did I really just see what I think I saw?" he asked.

Matt nodded. "Yes," he whispered.

"So what happened? Do I need to call the Vatican and report a miracle?"

"What?" Matt asked, thoroughly confused.

"You know, a miracle, you getting your sight back."

Oh. "Uh, no, no miracle. Still blind."

"But you were running, like you could see," Foggy insisted. "How?"

Matt didn't answer him right away. He got to his feet and walked straight to the window, not bothering with his usual blind act. Foggy would be watching, studying him, trying to figure out how he did it. He stood at the window as if he was looking out, while he decided what to say. It didn't take long. It was a no-brainer, really. He had to tell Foggy the truth – or enough of it to satisfy him. He turned around to face his friend and leaned against the window sill. Then he took a deep breath and let it out slowly before he said, "In the accident, when I lost my sight, there was a chemical spill. The chemicals got in my eyes and blinded me. But they did more than that. They also heightened my other senses."

"Heightened? What does that even mean?"

"Made them stronger, sharper."

"You mean, like, your other senses got better to compensate?"

"That's a myth, Foggy," Matt told him, with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Your other senses don't get stronger when you lose your sight. You just learn how to make better use of them."

"Oh."

"What happened to me, it's . . . different. It's . . . something else. Something more."

"OK," Foggy said slowly. "Like what?"

"I can't see, but I can tell where things are and their sizes and shapes and when they move."

"So that's how you could run like you did." Matt nodded. "And you don't really need a cane or a guide?"

"No." He left his place by the window and resumed his seat astride the chair.

Foggy flopped back on his bed, his arms above his head. He lay there for a couple of minutes before he sat up again. His heart rate ticked up. "Holy shit," he said, "my roomie has superpowers."

"It's not like that," Matt protested.

"Yes, it is," Foggy insisted. "Dude, that is so cool!"

Wait, what? Matt's mind raced. Foggy thought he had superpowers (that he didn't have), and it was "cool"? That was it? What the hell? Finally, he found his voice and asked, "You're not mad?"

"Mad? Why would I be mad?"

"That I didn't tell you."

"Well, maybe a little," Foggy admitted, "but this is freakin' awesome!"

Matt gripped the chair back, so tightly that he guessed his knuckles must be turning white. He knew what Foggy was thinking. "Foggy, please, you can't tell anyone," he pleaded desperately. He wasn't sure what a "pleading expression" actually looked like, but he gave it his best shot. Foggy had to get it. He had to understand how totally fucked Matt would be if people knew. For more than half of his life, Matt had been "different" and "other" because of his blindness. He could handle that. This would be far worse. He would be branded as a freak, a weirdo, someone to be shunned, even feared. They wouldn't let him stay in law school, much less become a lawyer. His life as he knew it, the life he'd planned and worked so hard for, would be over.

"C'mon, man, think!" he silently urged his friend. Foggy was smart, very smart. Surely he'd figure it out. Then his heart sank. What if Foggy thought he was a freak and shunned him? He wouldn't, would he? He'd just said Matt's abilities were "cool" and "awesome."

"But – " Foggy started to protest. Then he went very still. After a couple of minutes that felt much longer, he said quietly, "I get it. I won't tell anyone."

"Thank you," Matt whispered. Foggy's heartbeat said he was telling the truth. Relief washed over him.

"So, does anyone else know?" Foggy asked.

"No," Matt replied. Then he corrected himself. "Well, two people."

"Your dad? But he's . . . uh, sorry, buddy."

Matt gave him a sad smile. "No, not my dad."

"You never told him?"

Matt shook his head. "I didn't know how to tell him. I was just a kid. I didn't understand what happened to me."

"That sucks, man." Matt could hear the pity in his friend's voice. He didn't want that. Then Foggy's voice changed. "So who knows?" he asked.

"Elektra."

"Elektra? You told her?"

"No. She, uh, figured it out on her own."

"So that's why . . ."

Matt knew what Foggy was going to say. "That wasn't the only reason," he said with a smirk.

"Yeah, she was smokin'."

"She was," Matt agreed. "Or so you told me."

"But you could tell, anyway, right?"

"Not what she looked like. But there were . . . other ways."

Foggy sat quietly for a moment, apparently imagining the "other ways." Then he asked, "So who was the other person?"

"An old blind man named Stick. He has abilities like mine. He found me at the orphanage. He taught me my blindness isn't a disability, that sight is overrated. And he taught me how to use my 'gifts,' as he called them." Matt made air quotes. "He also told me I didn't deserve them." He smiled wryly.

Foggy seemed to consider this for a moment. Then he said, "So this Stick guy taught you to see with your other senses?"

"Not see, exactly. It's different. What my senses show me, it's not what you, or any sighted person, would call 'seeing.' But I can do some things as if I can see."

"Like running," Foggy suggested.

"Yeah, that," Matt agreed. "And I just know things."

"What things?"

Matt leaned forward, his hands clasped in front of him, and thought for a minute. He trusted Foggy, but still he held back. His friend didn't need to know everything. "I know you were with Marci when you disappeared after Torts this morning."

Foggy scoffed. "As if you needed super senses to figure that out."

"Maybe not. But I could smell her shampoo on you. That's how I knew. And that's how I know you were with her just now." Shampoo wasn't the only thing he'd smelled, but he wasn't going to tell Foggy that. No way.

"Oh."

"And you know Connor and Scott?" Matt asked, referring to two classmates who lived on the floor below them.

"Sure."

"They're more than BFFs."

"And you know this how?"

"I heard them, uh, . . . you know." Shit. That sounded creepy, even to him. What must Foggy be thinking?

"Ugh. TMI, buddy."

"Sorry about that. I only heard them by accident. I wasn't, like, spying on them."

Foggy sat quietly for a couple of minutes, seeming to process everything Matt had told him. Finally he said, "So, what, you just go around all the time, hearing and smelling, what, everything? That must suck."

"It's not like that. Stick taught me how to make my senses work for me. I learned how to control them, how to focus on what I want to let in. And if it's too much, I meditate."

"So that's why," Foggy said thoughtfully. Then he asked, "What happened to that Stick guy?"

"He left," Matt said flatly. Stick left because Matt failed him, he didn't measure up. He didn't want to talk about it.

Foggy must have gotten the message, because there were no more questions about Stick. Matt was grateful for that. The two friends sat in silence for a few minutes. Then Foggy got up and went to the mini-fridge in their galley kitchen. He pulled out two bottles of beer and handed one to Matt. He didn't make sure to place it in Matt's hand, as he usually did. He simply handed it to Matt the same way he would hand it to anyone – anyone who could see, that is. Matt took it from him without any hesitation or fumbling. Foggy sat on his bed and took a long drink before he said, "I gotta admit, it's kinda freaky. But it's also amazing, you know, what you can do."

"You have no idea," Matt thought. And Foggy wasn't going to know it all, not if Matt could help it. He turned the beer bottle in his hands, then took a drink.

Foggy was still talking. "It's kind of cool, you know, sharing your secret. I don't really have any secrets of my own. But don't worry, buddy, your secret's safe with me. You can trust me."

"I do," Matt said quietly. Then he set his beer bottle on the night stand. "We good?" he asked, holding up a fist.

Foggy gave him a fist bump. "Yeah, we're good."

Author's Note: I understood the Rule Against Perpetuities once, for about five minutes.

I changed Matt and Foggy's dorm room (from the TV show) to a graduate student apartment, because graduate students, including law students, typically don't live in dormitories.