Tim looked like he was about to be sick. He licked his lips, glanced around uncomfortably as if he were caught in a crowd. "That's not possible, Dick," he repeated. "They were all just here. I—I know they're not dead. If…if this is supposed to be some kind of sick practical joke, it's not very funny."

"I wish it was a joke, Tim. You don't know how much I wish it was. But you have to face the reality that everybody you've been seeing is dead. Some of them have been dead for over two years now." I was starting to raise my voice at him, so I stopped and collected myself, mentally reciting something Bruce had always told me. "Any strong emotion showing leads to vulnerability, to a weakness you can't afford to have. Control it—always." I counted to three, took a deep breath, and continued. "Some of the best psychologists in the nation examined your file, as well as your family, and there is no history of any genetic mental illness or schizophrenia anywhere. They can only conclude that you are insane. Fortunately, we happen to live in the vicinity of a mental hospital with particularly effective methods."

Tim snorted. "Yeah, conform to treatment or get beaten within an inch of your life," he said sarcastically. "Look, Dick, you're my big brother and all, and I trust you, but do you seriously expect me to believe this bullcrap you're feeding me? I'm not insane." If I wasn't mistaken, his voice was inching toward a plea. I allowed my eyes to meet his, and they were wide, tearful and sad and eager to hear what he wanted to hear, that he was right, that this was a joke and nothing more. I'd obviously shaken his cool demeanor into nonexistence, and he looked so rattled that I wanted so badly to tell him that I wasn't serious, to snatch him up and take him back home and hope he'd get better. But the rational part of me—the Batman in me—told me that was impossible, and I had no choice but to stand by it…no matter how much I didn't want to. That was, after all, what a good Batman should do. And it was for the good of everyone, I told myself, even and especially Tim. "Please, just…just get me out of here. I don't belong in here, Dick. You know that."

"You're to remain here for treatment," I stated, holding down the sadness and regret in my own voice. "You'll be tended to by the best doctors, nurses, and psychologists in Gotham. They'll figure out some way to make you better, and then you can come home. I promise." I turned to go, walking toward the door.

"Dick, no," Tim called out behind me. "Please, I don't want to stay here. I'm not insane! Dick!"

"I'm sorry, Tim."

I left without even so much as a backward glance, because I knew that I'd break if I had to see the expression on his face as he watched me abandon him to his worst nightmare. Tim had always hated therapists and psychologists. He didn't even especially like normal doctors. Now, to be surrounded by them at every hour of the day, three hundred sixty-five days of the year, it must've been like torture for him. But, no matter how much I wanted to, I couldn't take him away from it. He might've been crazy, but Tim was still smart, and trained by the original Batman. Who was to say that he couldn't be a threat to the city outside that place? By the same token, he could've escaped and become a threat, but I just had to trust that they'd help him before things got to that point.

That was a hard day for me. I had to lock my little brother up in a mental hospital. Then I had to tell him why I did it. And now, I had to walk away from him and leave him there. I guess, in a way, that was the beginning of the end of everything normal. That was the day that it all started.

Tim was curled up in a ball on his bed, crying, when Stephanie arrived with Darla and Dana in tow.

"Oh, Tim, what's wrong?" Steph cried, rushing over to him.

He spoke through his heavy, shuddering sobs, the waterfall of tears soaking his face and clothes. "D-D-Dick…he—he left me here…he left me in a damn nuthouse," he stammered. "A-and now…I-I-I have to s-see a shrink, and I hate w-when people m-mess with my head, and…and…" The thought made his words stick in his throat, and he settled for curling up tighter on the bed, crying harder and clutching his right fist to his chest. Steph's hand came to rest on his back, comfortingly.

From somewhere on his right, he heard Darla say, "I can't believe he would do that to you, Tim. That's not fair. Did he even give you a chance to explain?"

Tim shook his head, still sobbing.

"How could he just immediately assume you're insane and not even give you a chance?" Dana wondered.

"I don't know," Tim mumbled piteously.

"Well, whatever the reason," Steph cut in, "you're here now. You might as well make the most of it, then, right?"

This surprised Tim. He wiped his nose and sat up to stare at her in incredulousness, caught off guard by her words. Was she serious? How was he supposed to "make the most" of being in freaking Arkham Asylum, for heaven's sake? "What…what do you mean?" he asked carefully.

Steph got a sly look on her face, the same one she'd always gotten when she was about to make some big plan to do something that would tick Batman off or before she decided to make Tim wish he'd never met her at the same time that he was falling more in love with her. "Okay, so, they stuck you in here. They've arranged to have psychs and shrinks and doctors and nurses come in to take care of you and treat you for some illness they all say you've got. But does that necessarily mean you've got to do what they say? After all, it's a free country that we live in."

Dana and Darla nodded their agreement. Suddenly, Tim got their point, understood what they were trying to tell him. The hint clicked in an instant, erasing all previous traces of hopelessness in his brain.

There really wasn't much of a need to cry anymore.