"That," Jude starts, watching Bodhi elaborate, grasp, judge himself short. "That sounds good, useful, for when it's happening." It isn't a subject he talks about often, if at all, and he has learned ways to ground himself and at least--not appear to be having a fit, when they happen. There's only a couple of kinds he can't do anything about.

Sometimes he just stops. There's nothing to remember and nothing to think or hold on to: he just isn't there for minutes at a time. Sometimes it's so bad, every muscle in his body stops too, and he falls where he stands.

In eight years, all he knows to do about those is hope they happen when he's alone, and stay calm to avoid them happening at all. That much, Bodhi doesn't need to know, when he's clearly making hard admissions of his own just to reach back out across a divide and try to help. There's a part of Jude relaxing in the face of it that never has before, that strange weight lifting: maybe I'm not just crazy. Maybe these are things that happen. "I try to think about physical things," he offers back. "Like how I'm still breathing, or if my clothes itch, what I'm standing or sitting on."