Most days are easy. Most days, he gets out of bed, rain or shine, and says hi to Tracy. He always says hi to Tracy. Maybe he'll ruffle her hair a bit. If mom's up, he says hi to her, too. Sometimes mom talks him into breakfast. Sometimes he goes out alone.
He fills the days with a lot of walking. People thank him, friends, family, the Minches, even. It's humbling. A little frightening. But he's a good kid, so he nods and smiles and tells them that he's fine, no need to thank him, he couldn't have done it without his friends.
About his friends: Paula's doing pretty well. She's back with her parents, training to be a teacher or nurse, he can't remember which. He feels bad about it, but she's yet to bring it up. Jeff works with his father and garners a plentiful amount of funding and newscasters. Poo up and vanished to train himself back in Daalm.
Most days are easy.
But not always. Sometimes he wakes up so terrified he can't scream. Sometimes he stares blankly up at the ceiling and feels his eyes sting with unshed tears and tells himself, over and over and over like a broken record, that what he's been dreaming, thinking, wasn't real, never was real, and never will be real.
What your son is describing is very similar to post-traumatic stress disorder, his psychologist says firmly.
How can we help him? His mom's voice. She's worried.
Your son needs professional treatment, Ms. Montague. All the medication and therapy in the world isn't going to help him.
Still, they give him pills. A rainbow of colors and rounded capsules, warnings and side effects. He takes them dutifully. Knows better. They don't always make a difference, though he wishes, sometimes, that he could believe otherwise.
He doesn't tell anyone about the dreams. They'll lock him away and Dad's gone and Mom and Tracy need him.
So he's quiet. He's a good son.
He survived Giygas once. He can take it again.