FEBURARY 19, 1965.

Doctor Richman sat at his desk, reading the Bates profile again. Name: Norman James Bates. Age: 30. Hair: Brown; Eyes: Brown. Height: 6' 2". The facts are all the same, he thought, since the day I told Crane and Loomis. He was waiting for a call when the phone rang.

His patient, he was told, after five years of experimental treatment, had spoken in his own voice.

In barely contained excitement, he headed toward the young man's room in measured paces, stepping on only the blue tiles that checked the floor alongside white. Hands shaking, he swung the door open and stepped inside. Norman sat facing the wall.

"Hello, ah," Richman hesitated. "…Mr. Bates? It is… Mr. Bates?"

Norman turned, smiling. His voice was soft and hoarse with disuse.

"Hello, doctor. That is, it's nice to meet you."

Richman laughed breathlessly.

"The pleasure's all mine." His voice softened. "Norman. Can I call you Norman?"

A cautious smile. "…Sure."

"Listen, Norman. This is important." Richman began to speak in halting tones. "Are you feeling alright?"

"Sure. Headaches, but you know. Nothing else."

The doctor's brow furrowed. "Headaches?"

"Yes."

"Any… voices?"

Norman paled. "Same as always."

"And… your mother."

The patient's facial expressions, Richman noted, became defensive. "What about her?"

"Have you seen her lately?"

"Of course not… what do you know?"

"You can tell me, Norman. It's okay."

"W-w-what… what is there… to tell?"

"You were young, Norman. You were sixteen. You're safe now, and the sooner you come to terms, the sooner we can send you home. So what's it going to be?"

He growled through his teeth. "What are you suggesting?"

"We know you killed your mother."

"You leave my mother out of this!"

"Listen now, let's be reasonable. You haven't been yourself and I want to have a reasonable discussion with you."

"A reasonable discussion! You know damn well it's too soon! You're a psychologist. They say I've lost five years. Gone for five years! Do you have any idea where I've been?"

"I can imagine that it was a trying experience, and I hope that we can work through it together."

"You think you understand me, don't you? You think you know what goes on in my head. You have no idea."

Richman turned to the exit, opening the door as slightly as possible. "Margaret! Will you call Smith for me, please?"

A gentle voice, while muffled, rang as clear as a bell through the door. "Let me speak to him! Let me just speak to him."

"I won't have it, Margaret! It's too early on!"

A stubborn white shoe wedged itself in the door. Enter Margaret, a pale young beauty with dark hair. Norman was instantly tamed by her presence. He blushed and shifted his eyes like a schoolboy.

"Miss Serling."

"Good afternoon! You seem better today."

"It's been a while, but I'm back. Most of the time. Well, some of the time." He grinned briefly, but his smile faded. "How much did you hear?"

"Enough to know that you're upset. I'm so sorry, Mr. Bates." Her soft voice and sincerity seemed to comfort him.

"Ah… Norman. Y-you can call me Norman."

"Well then, Norman, I'm around if you need somebody to talk to."

Another charming grin. "Oh, I will."

She smiled. "Good!"

"I wouldn't get so excited if I were you, I'm a terrible conversationalist, and to be honest, I'm not sure if I can ever open up to you about what happened."

"We can talk about anything you like."

"No, wait. Don't get me wrong! It's not that I don't trust you. I-I trust you. I just… it's too awful for you to hear."

"You can tell me as much or as little as you like."

"Then we don't need to talk about my mother."