In the morning, Even was worse again. He simply didn't even look alive, and bar the soft rise and fall of his chest as he slept - back in Lumaira's bed - he could honestly have been dead.

Lumaira was worried. He'd tried to get Even to eat, just a little, and mostly succeeded - but he'd thrown up just hours later, pale and shaky as Lumaira leaned him over the sink in the bathroom. He wasn't sleeping well, either. He looked like he was in a lot of pain.

No. Lumaira was terrified. He was terrified that Even was going to die. Again.

So the only thing left was to watch over the thin, bony body with one hand on its chest, listening to the steady thump, thump, thump of each fluttering heartbeat. It was the only proof that convinced Lumaira that Even was still alive. He couldn't be undead if his heart was beating, right?

Catching himself again, Lumaira shook his head. No. Zombies didn't exist; they were just myths set out to scare little children. They were the stuff of bad horror movies, not real life. But, then again, Even had risen from the dead.

The early hours of the morning were the worst by far. Watching over Even, Lumaira was too busy to sleep, but not busy enough to keep his mind occupied in order to shy away from the truth.

The truth was, he thought now as he watched Even's chest rise and fall, rise and fall, that Even had been dead. Absolutely. Medically confirmed. Lumaira knew that for a fact; he'd seen the corpse. He'd called nine-nine-nine, sobbed into the mouthpiece of his phone as the poor operator tried to piece together what had happened, been in the ambulance that set off rushing towards the hospital, only to have Even confirmed dead halfway there. Lumaira remembered screaming. It seemed surreal. Even, the kid that was always sitting at the back of the class with all the answers absolutely correct, was dead. Dead.

But the other thing that Lumaira knew for a fact was that Even was not dead any more. He knew that now, listening hard against the twittering twilight birdsong for every shallow breath that Even pulled from the air and moments later slowly released. Old science lessons came back to him; the seven processes of life flashed across his mind. Movement. Well, Even was certainly doing that, however minutely. Respiration - he was doing that too. Then Lumaira couldn't remember the rest so he curled up miserably on the chair next to the bed and waited for dawn to break.

How long had it been? Unusually long. Almost a month. His parents had been on a two week business trip to some foreign country at the time - Lumaira found himself surprised that they hadn't returned the moment they'd found out that their son was dead. He would have done. But then, remembering Even's utter disillusionment when it came to his mother and father, he supposed that maybe the boy was right, after all. That, he realised, was awful. He imagined Even's body in the cold morgue - Lumaira had visited it, once, to cry openly on L'Erena's shoulder - for so long, as though it was waiting for its parents to come and give it closure in the form of burial.

Lumaira felt lost. This, whatever had happened with Even both before and after his death, was too big for him to handle. How could he, just another classmate who really knew nothing about the enigmatic boy, convince Even that his life was worth living? His mind couldn't even accept that Even was alive. It kept trying to convince him that he was dreaming, that the suicide was a hoax - any scientific explanation to detract from the sheer impossibility of a boy rising from his own grave. But the paramedics couldn't have been wrong, surely, and anyway after a month in a plastic bag, Even would be dead anyway. What if he'd been in some sort of coma? They'd know, wouldn't they?

Lumaira found no answers. So, he quietly supposed as five o'clock in the morning arrived, he'd just have to squirrel those thoughts into the back of his mind and take every day with Even as it came. Hopefully the boy would survive long enough for things to be settled.

No, not hopefully.

Lumaira would not let Even die.

Lumaira's mother returned home at eight, when Lumaira would have normally left for school - but he didn't want to leave Even alone. Not since his condition was so rapidly deteriorating.

"He looks worse," He said to his mother as she yawned discretely and made herself herbal tea from the kettle. "I think he needs your help..."

She looked too harassed to be pestered, Lumaira noted miserably, but Even was important. He couldn't keep coming second place any more, and he needed urgent attention.

"If he's that bad, I think we should take him to the hospital," His mother said as she plucked her name badge - Naminé Arkenstone - from her uniform and laid it on the counter.

Lumaira frowned a little. They'd want to know who he was. What if it was a conspiracy, and they'd pretend he was dead again?

"I don't know if he can..."

"Why not?"

Lumaira racked his mind for a legitimate reason.

"Papers, I think. Won't he need papers?"

"He'll be listed in the hospital records," His mother assured him, setting out the ingredients for two cups of hot chocolate too. Lumaira's eyebrows knitted together. Not if he's supposed to be dead.

He fell silent after that, and she worked without words too, until three steaming mugs were sitting on the worktop, two on a tray with a little plate of biscuits for Lumaira to take upstairs.

"Thanks, mum."

She smiled.

"It's fine."

"How was work?"

"We had quite a few drunks this time. One man who'd tripped down the stairs and broken his leg. The usual."

"No dead people?" Lumaira asked before he caught himself. But his mother just laughed a little, reaching up to ruffle his hair.

"Not this time, no."

Oh, Lumaira thought. She thinks I mean people who are actually dead.

"Could you have another look at Even anyway?"

"Okay."

"Thanks."

Lumaira carried the tray, careful not to spill anything, up the stairs and into his room. Even was lying against the pillows, staring at the ceiling. Lumaira's first reaction was still Oh God, he's dead until Even twisted his head a little in his direction and forced a fleeting smile onto his face.

"Mum made you hot chocolate. And there's biscuits, too."

Even peered at the tray that Lumaira laid on his lap.

"Thank you."

Lumaira's mother had set her tea down somewhere and was pulling out a bag, laying it on the bed.

"You've lost a lot of blood," She stated, pulling out a stethoscope. Lumaira closed his eyes and tried not to remember just how much of Even's blood he saw plastered to the boy's hands, arms, face, hair and clothes, seeping into the bed sheets and pooling like a cheap special effect on the floor.

"Heartbeat is weak."

Lumaira unwillingly recalled the witching hours, feeling that thump so dimly wax and wane as though Even's very life force was trying to slip away.

"Malnutrition."

Too thin, too thin. Bones all too visible through pale skin. Fatty.

"He needs medical attention," Lumaira's mother concluded as she put away her instruments. "A few days in hospital at the very least, if not a week."

"Hah!" Even scoffed, turning away. "Like they'd treat anybody who's dead."

Lumaira and his mother froze, the older frowning a little and silently mouthing a questioning "Dead?" with her lips.

"Almost dead," Lumaira quickly amended, throwing Even a meaningful glare.

"If by "almost dead" you mean lowered six feet underground in a coffin, then yes. Almost dead." Even, who didn't seem to be getting the hint, hissed. Lumaira laughed nervously, glancing at his mother.

"Very funny,"

There was a pause before Even, not-quite-focus swapping between the two other people in the room, spoke quietly.

"You didn't tell her, did you."

Lumaira resisted the urge to scream.

"Do you think that I would tell her?" He exclaimed, gesturing wildly. Even winced, and practically receded right into the pillows as though he could disappear. Then there was silence.
"I see," Lumaira's mother eventually said. "I thought it was the same Even. Would either of you care to explain?"

"No," Even immediately huffed. Lumaira was more forgiving, gently leading his mother outside.
"I know this sounds insane," He began, catching his mother's eye contact and not letting it go, "But... Even's not dead any more."

"Any more," His mother echoed quietly.

Lumaira considered his options. Even had been dead and was now alive. Even had been dead and was still, actually, dead. Even had not been dead and was now alive. Even was alive.

"The point is that he's alive and he needs our help," He quickly established. "It doesn't matter how or why, because you'd never believe the truth anyway. But he's alive. And he's ill."
Lumaira's mother seemed to sense the boy's emotional discomfort and pulled him into a gentle, maternal hug.

"We'll take him to the hospital," She resolved softly. "We'll see what happens from there. But he needs the treatment there."

"Now?" Lumaira asked.

"Now."

Naminé Arkenstone was approaching the situation much like her son. This was by simply trying not to think about the logistics of Even's state of un-death, and getting on with dealing with the consequences appropriately. This was not an uncommon situation for her - in many of the cases in A&E she looked at she dared not think about the cause of the injury. She was just there to help clean up the mess. And Even was the same; however he'd managed it, either through hoax, curious medical condition or miracle, he was just about alive and in need of a great deal of help. Lumaira, the poor thing, was doing his best, she thought as he helped the taller boy stumble to the car. There was early morning frost on the ground and Even was shivering violently, wrapped up in one of Lumaira's jackets that weren't quite the right dimensions for him and moving slowly and without grace. Lumaira was there with an arm around his waist, murmuring words of encouragement - many of which were rebuked almost instantly, but persevering nonetheless. It was crushing, seeing Even stumbling so helplessly - but this state was nothing that Naminé didn't frequently see at work, so she steeled herself, made sure that everyone's seatbelts were strapped on, and rolled out of the drive. It took fifteen minutes to reach the hospital.

Then things got tricky.

No papers? Even Carlisle. No, that isn't right. Even Carlisle is registered deceased on this database. I'm sorry, if you can't prove that it's him then we can't treat him on the NHS. Yes, I can see that his condition is very serious... yes, but he's-

- right. I see. Ah. Okay. Well, if you would be so kind as to wait here, a doctor will treat him in a few minutes.

Lumaira was looking at his mother with renewed awe as she rolled her sleeves back down and led the two boys to empty seats in the waiting room. She smiled tightly at them both.

"If anybody wants to deny a valid patient treatment, they'll have to answer to me."

Lumaira might have been impressed, but Even was looking as glumly miserable as ever as he glanced around the hospital.

"They'll ask questions," He whispered, head hanging.

"I'll sort something out," Naminé promised. This still didn't seem to satisfy Even; if anything, his frown just grew deeper.

"It doesn't matter anyway."

"Even," Naminé said in the soothing voice she often used for stricken patients, gently brushing her hand against Even's shoulder, "You matter just as much as any person in this building. The world, even. Don't make the mistake of thinking that you're any less important than anybody else."

"It's my own bloody fault anyway," Even hissed, glaring vehemently at the floor. But Naminé knew from the experience of working in a hospital and raising her own son for more than a decade and a half that Even was arguing more on principle than die-hard belief in his view.

"No," She said, letting her hand slip back to her side. "I don't think it is."

Fifteen minutes later, Lumaira was forced to wait in anxious silence while a doctor performed a standard check-up on Even. He tried flicking through a magazine lying on the waiting room table but he couldn't concentrate enough to do any more than gloss over the headlines. He was scared. Terrified.

What if they announced that Even was dead again? What if he was dying, again? what if they refused to treat him, no matter how many thickly-veiled threats Lumaira's mother hissed across secretaries' tables? What if, what if, what if?

It seemed like hours before Naminé returned, carefully shaking Lumaira from a restless doze. Her complexion seemed optimistically light.

"He'll be fine," She whispered. Lumaira started from his chair and she chuckled a little, gently pushing him back down. "He needs to stay in the hospital for a week or two, that's all."
"Can I talk to him?" Lumaira instantly asked. Naminé nodded.

"He's resting now, but yes. For a few minutes."

She led him down the corridor and into the dusty silence of a ward. The only sound was the reassuring bip, bip, bip of Even's heartbeat monitor and slow, steady breaths from the boy himself. It was odd, Lumaira thought as Naminé slipped away to converse with another doctor; Even sort of suited the cool, sterile environment of the hospital. His arms had been re-bandaged, a drip attached to his hand. To Lumaira, he for once looked alive and like he was going to stay that way. So he smiled a little as he perched on the edge of the bed.

"Hey."

Even twisted his head a little to face Lumaira without emotion.

"Hi."

"Things'll be okay now," Lumaira promised gently. "Okay?"

Even squinted a little to see Lumaira better, and the fingers of one hand twitched a little as though to reach up and brush against the other boy just to check that he was real.

"Perhaps," He agreed doubtfully, and let his baleful green eyes slide closed. Lumaira felt compelled to rest his hand on Even's as though that would help to reassure him. Even let out a little breath that could have been the makings of a smile with a little imagination, and shifted a little before lying still. Lumaira watched over him for a few minutes, then let his mother take him home. He felt like collapsing into his bed and sleeping solidly for the next eighteen hours, but Naminé took him to the kitchen and sat him down with a determined look.

"Lumaira," She said. "I think it's time I knew the full situation with Even, don't you?"