I.
The first word he ever read, at the age of twenty-three months, was robin. The second was death. The third?
The third was inconsequential.
II.
He would never forget the circus. Clowns and lions and acrobats. He loved the circus. He loved the acrobats and the silly tricks and balloon animals. His parents… they laughed and fed him sweets. He doesn't remember the last time his parents laughed together.
He remembers the huge tent and a grand show and quadruple back-flips. He remembers snapped cables and screams.
Most of all, he remembers crying for the blue eyed boy who could fly.
III.
Tim smiles for the first time since the circus. A year and five months later.
Jack and Janet wonder about all the photographs of robins. They never say a word.
IV.
The fights are worse now. He thinks - knows - they forget he's there, in the middle of the night. That's when things are the worst. He knows he's not supposed to snoop, but he can't help it. His mother… she yells horrible things that make Tim's chest hurt. His father never cries, but Tim knows he wants to.
They forget - ignore - the fight by morning. Tim smiles like nothing had happened.
The next day, his mother is gone. Tim reads Shel Silverstein - The Missing Piece - out loud to an empty room. Jack finds him staring at the only picture he has of his mother, smiling up at him with her large brown eyes. He hugs Tim, pulling him and the book into his lap. Tim keeps reading.
"Do you ever feel like a circle missing a piece?" The book is finished and the room is the type of quiet that makes Tim want to scream.
"Daddy, I'm not a circle. I'm a boy."
V.
He's… he will be Robin. The Boy Wonder. The third.
Jason was second - death. Jason was… He doesn't know what Jason was. He's a memory living in the case. He's the nightmares of blood and insecurity and anger.
Sometimes, Tim thinks Jason is following him. He can almost smell the stench of half-smoked cigarettes and back alleys and bloodied knuckles.
Almost.