The next morning:

Dick had barely slept at all. The mattress gave him little protection from the hard floor and the pillow didn't cushion his head at all. He felt like he was lying on a rock.

He wanted to try to go to sleep, but the bright sun was shining in his room and Jasper was yelling for him to get up. At least the man remembered he was there.

Slowly, the ten-year-old stood up. His body was both aching and hot. Sleeping on the floor was not ideal, and being forgotten outside had turned his arms, legs and face red.

"Dick, why are you all red?" Matilda asked as he came into the kitchen.

"Sunburn, ma'am," he replied quietly.

"Oh. Well, after breakfast I'll get you some lotion for that. Don't want you blistering up and having to go to the hospital. We need you here for the money."

Dick almost rolled his eyes at her last sentence. The only reason they were tolerating his existence was for the money they would receive on his behalf. Money that was supposed to be used to care for him. However, Dick had heard Jasper talking about a new car he had seen and the boy was pretty sure that's where the money was going to go.

"She's getting you lotion, kid, don't be so rude!"

"Um, thank you," Dick quickly stated.

"No manners," Matilda muttered. "Where are you from?" she asked a little louder.

"Well, I was an aerialist for the first eight years of my life so I'm kind of from all over," the boy answered.

"That explains it," the woman said, nodding her head.

There was a stretch of silence and Dick was confused.

"What does it explain?" he asked timidly.

"Well, you're a circus freak, right?" she replied.

"I don't…well, freak?" he responded, clenching his fists.

"And circus freaks don't have manners, as far as I know. So now I understand why you don't know how to speak to your elders."

"I'm not a freak and the circus was my family!" Dick yelled.

Jasper stood up and, without any warning, smacked the boy across the face.

"Don't yell at my wife," he growled before turning around and walking out to the backyard.

Dick was leaning against the kitchen counter, holding his left hand against his throbbing cheek. He had felt the sharpness of a knuckle hit the bone right under his eye and knew it was going to swell up.

"That was so rude," Matilda declared, "that I'm not getting you that lotion! Maybe some of that pain will help you learn some manners!"

"I'm not a freak," Dick mumbled in response.

"Go to your room," the woman commanded. "And you can stay in there all day, with the door shut. I don't want to see your face until it's time for dinner."

"What about lunch?" the ten-year-old asked.

"You'll just have to survive without it today," Matilda snapped. "Now go!"

So, off he went, back to his bedroom. And that's where he stayed, all day, watching the shadows move around his room. He tried to take a nap but his skin felt like it was on fire. Dick wondered where she kept the lotion. Maybe he could sneak it out of wherever it was and use it when they weren't paying attention to him. That was the case most of the time, so it probably wouldn't be too hard.

Finally, the sky grew dark. Dick waited for someone to come get him. His stomach had been growling at him for a while and he really hoped that it was almost time for dinner. He could hear voices and knew the adults were moving around but he couldn't tell what they were doing.

Soon the noises quieted down and the house fell silent. The sky was completely dark so Dick decided to see what was going on. Slowly, he opened his bedroom door, only to be greeted by a dark house and the sounds of snoring coming from the bedroom of Jasper and Matilda.

The ten-year-old exited his room and strode angrily down the hall. They had either forgotten him, again, or just decided not to feed him. Dick went to the kitchen and opened the fridge. Apparently, they had eaten spaghetti for dinner. There was a small bowl with what he assumed was the leftover meal.

Opening the top, Dick grabbed a fork out of a drawer and ate the entire amount in less than a minute. It was not even close to being filling, and his growing body protested that fact, but at least it was food.

Dick thought about leaving, right then. It was tempting, but it would probably hurt the case against Bruce. Mr. Makov would probably think Dick had left because Bruce had taught him to be disobedient. He would twist the boy's explanation around, just as Miss Jameson had done, and Dick would never see Bruce again.

So, he tossed the thought out of his mind and went back to his room. He paused by the laundry room, then went in and searched the little cupboard. No lotion there, it was probably in her room. With a sigh of disappointment, Dick went to bed, preparing himself for another long night of little sleep.

The next morning – Wayne Manor:

Greg had shown up at eight o'clock, ready to begin his investigation. Alfred had taken him on a tour of the house, spending an extra amount of time in Dick's bedroom and pointing out that Bruce's bedroom was right next door. Dick sometimes had nightmares, he had explained, and Bruce was always there to comfort the boy.

The butler had showed the younger man the chair in Dick's room and talked about the first few months of the boy's time in the Manor. How Dick would scream in terror and how Bruce would spend the night sitting in that very chair, holding the boy in his arms.

When they were in the living room, Alfred had talked about card games and board games and books. He had even taught Greg how to play 'War' so that the man would know it was not a sordid card game that only adults should play. They ended up in the dining room at lunchtime, where Alfred left Greg and Bruce to chat while he prepared lunch.

"Your house is very nice, Mr. Wayne," Greg remarked.

"Thank you, Mr. Makov, you can call me Bruce."

"Since we will be talking a lot throughout my investigation, you can call me Greg."

Bruce dipped his head in a sort of half-nod and waited silently for Greg to continue.

"I'm wondering, Bruce, why it is that you and Dick were arguing so loudly on the day I came for my initial visit. Dick refused to answer, said he didn't want to talk about it. I assume that you will answer it for me, since you are not a traumatized ten-year-old."

Bruce wanted to point out that one of the main reasons Dick was traumatized right now was because he wasn't here, in Wayne Manor. Instead, he focused on finding a reason for their argument besides 'why didn't you change into Batman and go after the killer'.

"Bruce?" Greg said after a minute or two of silence.

Sighing, Bruce stated, "He wanted to know why I hadn't asked Batman to go after the person who murdered his parents."

"Why on earth would he ask that?!"

"I'm a personal friend of Batman, as Commissioner Gordon can tell you. However, I rarely ask the man for a favor. He has many obligations, as you probably know, and I assumed that looking for that particular criminal was already on his list. The murder of the Flying Graysons was a tragedy and a horrific crime. Batman knew that; he didn't need me to tell him."

"Why wouldn't Dick want to tell me this?"

"I don't know. Perhaps it's something that is too fresh for him to tell a stranger about. It's only been a year, Greg."

"You make a good point. I am a stranger to him and, if I were in his place, I probably wouldn't want to talk about it with a new social worker, either."

"It's a very personal matter and something that is very difficult to discuss with anybody. But Dick and I trust each other and he feels safe talking about it with me. Also, of course, I have experienced the same emotions he is struggling with since I was eight."

"But why argue about it?"

"He's a very passionate child, Greg, and he hates injustice. In his eyes, the fact that I didn't personally request Batman to catch the killer is somewhat of an injustice."

"I see. I heard you say something about thinking about what he says before he says it. Can you explain that?"

"I don't remember the exact words he used but it was along the lines of me being an idiot because I didn't ask."

"You're an adult, Bruce."

"I am," the millionaire agreed. "Do you have children, Greg?"

"Yes."

"Would you have been fine with one of your kids calling you an idiot because you didn't ask somebody for a favor?"

"No, of course not."

"So why is this any different?"

"You're not his parent, Bruce, you're his guardian."

Bruce clenched his hands under the table and took a deep breath. That was one of the stupidest things he had ever heard anyone say but he needed to remain calm.

"So you're saying that you can be offended by the statement and get somewhat angry with your child but, because I'm not Dick's biological parent, I'm not allowed to have emotions like that? I'm supposed to just accept whatever he says without complaint, even if it's completely disrespectful? Does a child who is 'just' a ward need no boundaries?"

"That's not what I meant…"

"That's exactly what it sounded like, Greg. I don't feel like I'm 'just' a guardian or Dick is 'just' my ward. I have the same parental rights you do when it comes to setting and enforcing boundaries. Being a guardian doesn't mean letting your ward walk all over you. I take care of him, I protect him, I feed and clothe him, he has a place to sleep, he goes to school and does his homework, he has friends. How am I different from you, besides the fact that your wife birthed your children while my boy was left an orphan and needed a safe place to go?"

"That's a valid point," Greg admitted.

"Have you never raised your voice to your children, Greg?"

"This isn't about me, but I understand where you're going," the man replied. "Both Mr. Kent and Dr. Thompkins think that you treat the boy like a son."

"Because that's what he is to me, Greg. Dick is my son, in every way except biologically."

"Lunch, gentlemen," Alfred said several moments later.

They both said 'thank you' and ate in silence. The silence lingered after the meal so Bruce stood and invited Greg into the living room.

"I think I'm done for today, Bruce. I have several things to ponder in the privacy of my office. Thank you for your time."

"You're welcome and thank you for listening. If I may, how is Dick doing?"

Greg sighed and said, "I can't tell you where he is, Bruce."

"That's not what I asked, Greg."

"I'm planning to check on him this afternoon. I'll call you after I visit him to let you know. You have no reason to worry, Bruce, he's with a good family."

"Thank you," Bruce responded softly.

Greg nodded then walked out the front door that Alfred was respectfully holding open. They watched his car drive away before closing the door and walking to the living room. Bruce collapsed on the couch with a giant sigh.

"You did well, Master Bruce. You told the truth without revealing any identities. Mr. Makov has a lot to think about."

"You were listening."

It was a comment, but the butler replied anyway with a smile.

"Of course, sir, how could I not? After all, I was only a door away and that door is quite thin."

"He's going to come back to us," Bruce said firmly. "Greg Makov is not Susan Jameson and he is very professional and efficient."

"I agree, Master Bruce, and perhaps it will be sooner than his initial estimate."

"I hope so," the millionaire sighed.

The Dunston's house:

While Bruce was being interviewed, Dick was learning how to be polite. Matilda, after feeding him a nice breakfast, made him stand against the wall. She would say a phrase, he would have to repeat it, and then she would do it again. The phrases were idiotic, in Dick's mind, but the feeling of Jasper's hand hitting his cheek helped the boy decide to do whatever she asked – well, told – him to do.

'Thank you, sir' and 'Thank you, ma'am' and 'Yes, sir' and 'Yes, ma'am'. All sorts of phrases designed to teach him how to respond politely to his elders. She spent over half an hour on this exercise, then had him sit at the table. Giving him a piece of paper and a pencil, Matilda instructed him to write 'Yes, sir' and 'Yes, ma'am' one hundred times each.

Dick scowled at her as he sat down. Jasper, without the ten-year-old noticing, had just come into the kitchen.

"Get out of that chair," he demanded harshly.

Dick glared at him as he stood up. Jasper grabbed the boy's upper arm and roughly pulled him down the hall.

"I don't know how else to teach you," the man growled. "Every other kid has done exactly what we've told them to do. Either you're an idiot or you just like to be defiant. Into the basement you go until you can show me that you have learned how to be respectful."

"NO!" Dick shouted fearfully, trying to escape from the man's strong grasp.

That earned him a punch instead of a slap and a shove down the stairs instead of a nudge. Dick tumbled to the ground, hit his head on the hard cement, and his world went dark.

Office of Greg Makov:

Greg had been thinking things over for almost two hours. Bruce had made many points, all of them valid. The millionaire had turned the situation into a personal one for the social worker, much like Clark Kent had done a few days ago.

Looking at it from Bruce's angle, Greg realized he had nothing to go on. The man's story had been plausible, and he hadn't looked or sounded nervous while telling it. In fact, he had seemed both confident and sad. Greg had noticed that Alfred's eyes were weary and Bruce's were streaked with red lines.

Perhaps Susan really had been holding a grudge. Perhaps she really was trying to use the boy to get back at Bruce. Greg needed to see the video, if it existed. He needed to see the interview for himself: the boy's words and body language, Susan's questions, and – he still couldn't believe it – to verify if she had slapped Dick.

That could be done tomorrow. Today, he needed to go check on Dick. Picking up the phone, he called Matilda and asked if four o'clock was a good time for a routine visit. She sounded slightly nervous, but agreed. After hanging up with her, Greg called Wayne Manor to set up an appointment for ten o'clock tomorrow morning.

The Batcave:

Something was wrong, Batman could feel it. Dick was in danger; he had no proof at all but, somehow, he knew it. Alfred hadn't even tried to reassure the man because he was feeling the same way. But why would Dick be in danger with a 'nice family'? There was absolutely no reason that either man should be alarmed, but still they were.

There was no way for anyone to find out where the ten-year-old was currently living. The only people who knew were Dick, the 'nice family' and Greg Makov. Batman wanted to go confront the man but Alfred wisely stopped him. Why would Batman be interested in the case of a small child with whom he had no connection?

Of course, Batman had been the one to find Dick after Michael was done with him, and the one to stop him from killing Mr. Mack, and the one to confront Mr. Mercer about Dick's bruises. So, technically, he did have a connection. But Alfred said that Bruce Wayne wouldn't jeopardize his chances of getting Dick back by asking Batman to confront Greg Makov.

So the men were sitting in the Batcave, waiting for…what? They had no idea.

The Manor phone rang and Alfred picked up it. He readily agreed to Makov's request for an appointment tomorrow morning. After hanging up, he turned to Batman, who was pacing between the Batmobile and the Bat-computer.

"Mr. Makov is coming over tomorrow morning, sir, at ten o'clock. I'm sure he will want to see the video."

Batman nodded then suddenly stopped pacing.

"He's going to check on Dick today. I should follow him, find out where he took Dick!"

"How, sir?"

"The Batmobile, of course!"

Alfred stared at Batman, waiting for him to realize the ramifications of following the social worker in the Batmobile.

"You're right, Batman has no reason to follow Greg Makov around," the hero said after a moment of silence. "But I can't just sit here doing nothing! We both know something is wrong, Alfred."

"I'm sure Mr. Makov will give us an update when…"

"You're right again, I should take your car. Great idea, Alfred, as usual."

"Sir…"

"Your keys," the younger man commanded.

With a sigh, the butler replied, "With all the other ones, of course, Master Batman."

Nodding in acknowledgement, Batman strode to the Batpole and shot himself up to the Manor. He immediately went to the garage, grabbing the old set of keys off the ring holder by the door.

It was a run-of-the-mill, dark-blue Nissan Maxima. No bells or whistles or bright colors or flashy paint jobs. The only time Alfred had used it was when he had taught Bruce how to drive. Nobody would know it was the butler's car so nobody would suspect a thing. Alfred had splurged for dark tint on the windows, wanting to hide his young charge from the prying eyes of the media. But that had been over ten years ago and not a single person would remember such a forgettable car.

Greg Makov was still at his office when the hero arrived. Batman parked two blocks away and, when the man finally left, stayed at a safe distance. The hero was surprised that they were going so far away from the city. One would think that a social worker would want the children in his charge to be close, in case of some kind of emergency.

It was three-fifty when Greg pulled onto a street lined with cookie-cutter, rectangular homes. He drove all the way to the end so Batman stopped at the beginning. There were eight houses on each side with no side streets breaking the line.

The appointment must be at four, the hero supposed, since Greg was now just sitting in his car. At three-fifty-eight, Makov got out. Batman silently exited his car and waited for the man to be invited inside the house. Then he flew through the back yards until he came to the last one. He peeked through the window into the kitchen, but nobody was there.

Batman hated being in full view of anyone but Makov was probably in the room at the front of the house. It was too risky; instead of going around to the front, Batman carefully slid the window up so he could hear. He really wanted to see, but couldn't take the risk.