[ With the drink out of his hands, he settles them in his lap, still and quiet as he watches the other boy's movements. Hauntingly attentive, even though his form doesn't move an inch — like a doll. Or worse, a corpse. Fidgeting at his age might be normal, but he doesn't. Doesn't swing his legs, doesn't wiggle in his seat, doesn't move his hands any further than they'd fallen. ]

Mm-hmm, [ he nods, when questioned about his status. ]

I crawled out of my own grave, not too long ago. I had a funny dream about being dead, and then I was here. My mom isn't here, though. I think she's still dead.