A/N: I'm posting this to prove that I'm still alive. Sorry for not replying to reviews or PMs lately.

If you go to school at Sarah Lawrence, Barnard, NYU, or SVA, say hi to the weird girl with short hair on tour next week!

Clyde drifts in the days and the weeks and the months after the trial.

He goes to school, comes home, and does his homework. He's always been a heavy sleeper, and manages to avert the worst of the nightmares.

He plays video games. He beats every level of every shoot-em-up he owns, then plays them over again.

He hangs out with friends when it's socially required.

He doesn't eat very much. The extra pudge slides off his stomach.

His therapist says he's recovering.

His father says he doesn't blame him.

His father is a very good liar.

One night he dreams. He's playing another fighting game, shooting zombies from castles, and then the Xbox explodes and shrapnel flies everywhere. He holds up his hands and huddles under his controller.

"Don't be afraid!"

His mother's voice. And then the violence and flame is gone, because this is a dream, after all.

He looks up and she is a ghost.

"Don't be afraid." She hugs him. Even though this dream is too vague for him to really feel, his body moves to hug her back.

"I'll always be there for you," she says.

Clyde wakes. He goes downstairs and starts up his Xbox.

Craig is one of those dependable friends you can stand next to and make awkward small talk when caught in a crowd. One of those people you don't even know. One of those kids destined to fade into the background.

He also has a flashlight and a baseball bat.

"This is a stupid idea," Craig says. "We're going to be eaten by alligators. We should probably just go home and watch TV. That would be really smart."

Clyde rolls the manhole cover onto the pavement. His arms tremble from the effort. His shoulders heave.

"That's why you're holding the baseball bat," he says. "In case anything attacks us."

Craig shines the flashlight into the abyss (sewer system) below.

"This is a really stupid idea," he says.

Clyde shrugs. "Why are you here, then?"

Craig sighs. Both of them know he wants to say, 'because you're the kid whose mother died.'

Instead he says, "Dunno."

"Okay, then," Clyde says. He reaches down with his foot and feels for the first rung.

His arms are shaking harder by the time his sneakers hit the ledge. The smell makes him gag. He holds his arm over his mouth and peers around the sewer. Sludge water floats past.

"Jesus - Jesus fucking christ. Jesus. Christ. The smell. Jesus Christ."

The light swings over the pavement and water.

"Jesus fucking christ. Oh Jesus."

Craig steps down onto the ledge next to him and shines the light down on the tunnel. The bricks are covered with graffiti. Rats squeak and scamper out of sight. He hefts the baseball bat to defend them both against sewer monsters of the amphibian variety.

"Well, then," he says after a few seconds' observation, "what are you looking for down here anyway?"

Clyde exhales and inhales deep, sucking in sewer air.

Then he screams, "Mom!"

"Oh, Jesus Christ, no," Craig says.

He grabs Clyde's arm, snapping, "We're getting out of here. No underground soul-searching, not on my watch, that shit always ends in tears-"

Clyde breaks free and runs.

The water goes up to his knees. Gunk and grime float past his legs, bump into him, and he tries not to think about what it is.

He screams, "Mom!" as he runs through the shit that killed her.

Somewhere deep down inside of him, he knows there's nothing out here in the darkness, but he keeps running.

Somewhere deep down inside of him, he hopes he finds her anyways.

The light illuminates his body. Craig screams, "You fucking idiot!" Then grumbles, "Jesus Christ, don't fucking kill yourself!" and runs after him, water splashing.

Clyde screams "Mom!" again.

And again and again.

Until he's out of air, bent over, gasping, finally sobbing.

Craig catches him and leans over next to him. Both of them pant. Clyde doesn't even try to hide his tears. Even after both of them have caught their breath, he keeps hiccupping and choking and making primal little whimpering sounds.

"Mom," he says again, and swallows, and wipes his face with his grimy sleeve.

Craig points the flashlight at him, enough so the light blinds him. He squints and looks away.

"What," Craig says. "Are you still a little kid or something? Do you still believe in ghosts?"

Clyde looks back at the sloshing water, and up at the bricks, and at the scurrying rats, and he absorbs the filth surrounding them, and how they reek of shit and waste.

"Dunno," he says. "Yeah. Guess I believe in them. Guess I just need something to believe in."

He's too tired to climb the last few rungs out of the tunnel. Craig has to set the bat and flashlight on the ledge and push him out onto street level.

He goes back home and showers. Even after he dries himself off, he still smells of sewer.

He starts playing video games less and less. At first he just spends more time sleeping. Then he starts putting the controller down, heading out of the house, and finding someone dependable to make small talk with.

His father still blames him.

He still doesn't dream.

He doesn't know if this is healing. He's young, and children grow fast. Maybe it's more like forgetting.