Disclaimer: See previous chapters.

Timeline: Knightfall. For those of you who read my first story, Mayday, this story takes place four years later.

A/N: I am using my high school biology lessons, what I could glean off of a Google search, (check out http:www.spinalcord.ar.gov/General/disablility.html for my main source) and an overactive imagination. I am not now, nor never have been a neurologist, neurosurgeon, or physician. All I hope is, that if my theory flies in the face of medical fact, someone with the necessary knowledge can help me to come up with a way in which this could work.

A/N: Bold italics are meant to convey telepathic communication. .

Chapter 11

Instincts and Rationalizations

Friday, 3:20 P.M.

"A spinal cord injury," Callie began, "occurs when there is damage to the spinal cord, which then results in the loss of the ability to transmit messages to and from the brain." She was repeating this primarily for the benefit of Sophia, Maybelle, Tabitha, Jean-Paul, and Dick. Alison, Natalie, Alfred and Tim had been in the library when she had first explained it for Bruce's benefit.

"So far, I think we're all clear. However," she said, brightening, "when we consider the following factors," she raised her index finger, "stabilization and telekinetic immobilization of the vertebrae," her middle finger joined the first, "prompt administration of Decadron and," she raised her ring finger, "overall physical health of patient prior to the injury, the prospects look somewhat different."

Dick raised his hand. Callie glanced at him. Her lips curved upwards as she nodded to him. "This isn't a classroom. Feel free to call out."

Dick grinned his acknowledgment. "You said 'telekinetic immobilization'. What exactly is that?"

Callie blushed. "Me trying my darnedest to hold the vertebrae together mentally, so that they'd heal straight. Also, as you'd expect given the..." she pursed her lips together angrily, before continuing, "...nature of the fracture, the processes," she paused, "that is to say, the knobby parts of the vertebrae closest to the skin and furthest from the internal organs, were pressing against the spinal cord. Boruch Hashem, they didn't sever it, but one of the things that I had to do was pull the pieces of the two vertebrae back into position, assemble them, and hold them in place until—"she looked quickly over to Bruce, "—your body's normal healing process took over."

Dick blinked. "So, you don't have to see what you're affecting?"

"Not exactly. Bruce," she focused on him, again, "when we first met, I told you that although I couldn't lift much more than my own body weight (and, by the way, I've improved since then), my 'fine-motor skills' were such that I could perform alchemy mentally by moving protons from one atom's nucleus to another. Nobody on the team has microscopic vision. I've never seen a single atom. But, if I can visualize what I want to do, that works. The more correct my visualization, the more effective my telekinesis is. Here, I had eight years of premed and med combined, plus x-rays to draw on.

"So," she continued after a moment, "the bones are healing nicely. Which brings us to the nerves, themselves. And this is where things get dicey. Jill?"

The illusionist rose to her feet, staring intently at the space immediately to her sister-in-law's left. She made no gesture, and uttered no word, but instantly a life-sized textbook diagram of the human nervous system appeared next to Callie. Callie smiled. "Thanks. This is basic biology, but in case anyone needs a refresher, or," she smiled at her nephew, "hasn't taken it yet but is hoping to learn something without letting on that he's paying attention, and needs a general grounding," (Jaime clapped both hands over his mouth, trying to contain himself) "here we go."

She pointed to the spinal column on the three-dimensional model. Instantly, Jill illuminated it, so that it appeared as a white glow against a green, humanoid figure. "The spinal cord," she began, "is a bundle of nerves and fibers that transmits messages, in the form of electrical impulses, to and from the brain. Should anything happen to interrupt the flow of these impulses"—she was back to the steady voice that she had developed as an intern, in order to deliver potentially disturbing news to a patient or his or her family—"in many cases the results are permanent loss of sensation, and paralysis.

But," she continued, "what if the nerves could be reactivated?"

Silence greeted her. She continued. "Let us say, for example, that a small, intensely-focused, electrical surge could be administered at the correct juncture, or junctures—essentially, a jumpstart."

Dick shook his head. He remembered a conversation he'd had with Barbara, not long after the Joker had crippled her. "If you're talking about electro-convulsive therapy, isn't that a little too risky?"

Callie nodded. "It is, and I'm not. ECT wouldn't be as effective as any of us would like, at any rate. What I'm suggesting, to best of my knowledge, has never been tried before. It'll be a team effort, and the risks involved will need to be agreed upon by the team." The look she turned on Bruce was compassionate, but held no pity. Her voice was resolute. "I didn't tell you everything, before. There wasn't much point in doing so until all the necessary parties were here. Now that they are, I have to advise you," her gaze panned the room, taking them all in, "that this could be dangerous—not so much for you, Bruce," she said quickly, "but for those of us who are instrumental to the procedure. And everyone I'm about to name is essential. So, we can't work with a simple majority, this time. We need to be unanimous." Sober nods greeted her announcement. Still she hesitated.

"Callie," Brandon said, "we can't make a decision if we don't have the facts."

Callie smiled. "Actually, Bran, you aren't one of the ones who's going to have to make the decision. Your point is taken, however." She continued briskly. "Here's who, and what, we're working with."

"Sophie. We'll need your x-ray vision to see what we're doing. Maybelle. You're going to provide the necessary electrical spark, and Tabitha will be phasing that spark to the correct point."

Maybelle shifted position. "Ummm, Callie" she began, staring at the floor, "you know, it sounds like you're talking about a really tight margin for error, here. I mean, if my lightning ball is a fraction too big, or we miss the right place, we won't have a second chance." Unconsciously, a hand flew to the string of seed pearls she wore around her neck, fiddling with the small translucent beads. "Look," she continued, "I know I get a little overconfident, but this time, I've got to face up and admit that I just might not be able to fine-tune my abilities enough for what you're asking."

"While we're discussing drawbacks," Sophie added, "I'm not altogether sure I can tell the difference between a nerve and a fiber. It's like telling me to weed a garden when I have no idea what the desired crop is."

Callie's expression did not waver. "Simple answer for both of you: I can. We're going to need to work together quickly and precisely. Natalie is going to link us up. For the duration of each session, we'll need to think and move as one, because," she looked at Maybelle, "like you've just said, we won't have a lot of wiggle-room if things start going wrong."

Maybelle frowned. "You're talking about something more intense than a usual psi-link, aren't you?" She did not wait for a reply. "This is going to be more like a hive mentality."

Callie nodded. "Exactly. And, if I'm going to be focusing on 'fine-tuning' and concentrating on my medical skills, I don't feel fully comfortable gestalting our abilities. That's where Natalie comes in."

Bruce had been listening to the exchange with an expression of mingled hope and horror. "What are the drawbacks?"

Callie looked at him. "We've never done this before, so we're in uncharted waters, here. It's possible that after all of this buildup, it won't work. If I can't control Maybelle's talent," she grimaced, "I haven't lied to you yet, and now's a heck of a time to start. It will do more harm than good." That had to be the understatement of the century. If the electrical charge was powerful enough, it would kill him.

Bruce waved a hand in dismissal. "We went over that yesterday. What are the drawbacks for you?"

Callie was silent for a moment. "Maybelle has a much stronger than normal resistance to mind control and mind invasion. This linkup won't be... easy for her. If she puts up too good a fight, we won't be able to merge. Given Natalie's past, she doesn't attack telepathically. What I'm asking now is about as close as she's willing to venture to that precipice."

"But, I am willing to venture that far," Natalie stated simply.

"If Maybelle fights you?" Callie asked.

Natalie hesitated. "Let's cross that bridge when we come to it."

Brandon broke in. "Last exit before bridge, five hundred feet and closing. Can we try to keep the improvisation to a minimum?"

Natalie sighed, frowning. "Fine. If she fights me, I'll back down. We'll try to work this with her... outside the mix. It'll be trickier to do, but easier to abort if things start going wrong."

"Is that all?" Bruce asked.

Callie shook her head. "No. That's not all." She turned to Tim. "When I linked minds with you, I basically became a... a back-seat driver in your head. I was looking through your eyes, but trying very hard to stay out of your thoughts."

"You picked up my name, though."

"And apologized for it. It was fairly close to the surface of your mind. Later, I can show you how to fix that, if you like. What we're going to do this time will be more invasive. It's not just a question of merging different thought processes and personalities, it has to do with perceptions, as well."

Tim snapped his fingers. "Sophie's EM-band perception."

"Exactly. And Natalie's and my combined telepathy. I don't know whether the rest of us will be able to filter out the extra input." She glanced at her sister. "It took you how long before you managed?"

Sophie had gone slightly pale. "It was about six years before I could truly say I had." She frowned. "Though I must have achieved some measure of partial control earlier, or I don't know how I kept myself out of a padded cell. Sensory overload and sensory deprivation may be at polar extremes, but some of the side effects are common to both."

Bruce shook his head slowly. "I can't ask you to do that."

Callie raised an eyebrow. "Are you ordering us not to?"

The question seemed to hang there. He closed his eyes. He was aware of Dick's hand, resting unobtrusively on his upper arm. It tightened for a second, then relaxed. Bruce placed his opposite hand over Dick's and squeezed briefly. He knew the younger man would back him no matter what he said next. One word. All he had to say was 'yes', and it would be over. Callie and her siblings would not risk their collective sanity, and perhaps, all their lives, for him. One word. And it would all be over. Permanently. He would never be Batman again. He would never walk again. But they would be safe.

He would be safe. That was what Alfred had said, in the cave, when he had first come out of his coma. "You're safe, now, Sir." And again, when they had transferred him to the upstairs bedroom, and he, still medicated, but coherent enough to understand his condition, had succumbed to despair, and reviewed, out loud, his mistakes, his regrets. Alfred, trying, he knew, to give some measure of comfort, had repeated "You're home now, Sir—you're safe." And, for the moment, so was Psion Force. How could he be so selfish, that he would even consider allowing these people to run the kind of risk Callie was suggesting? Unbidden, something she had related the day before resurfaced—something Bronwen had said to her, once.

You seem to be saying that you're the only one entitled to risk his life. What makes you so blasted special?

Answer: I'm Batman. And although he and Bronwen had barely exchanged a dozen words, somehow, he could guess what her response to that assertion might be.

And Psion Force is challenging that assertion? Precisely how? Sounds more like they're backing you, actually.

He considered. Whatever else these people were, they were emphatically not thrill-seekers. Callie had considered the risks before broaching the subject. The others had voiced concerns about the ramifications. At the same time, nobody had suggested not doing it. Was he rationalizing? Was he trying to find a justification, beyond self-centeredness for permitting this experiment? He wanted to walk again. Was it weakness to admit it? There was a possibility that his condition could be cured. Was he truly being noble in refusing the treatment? Was he afraid that after building up his hopes, the treatment wouldn't work? Or... was he afraid that it would? For over a decade, his life had been Batman's. No. His life had been Batman. It had been one crisis, one fistfight, one loss after another. Of course the stress had been getting to him recently—how could it not have? And, in the midst of the pain of the last few days, there had been a strange, almost shocking relief. That maybe, he could finally relax. Was that wrong?

He opened his eyes and looked at the young man standing next to him, thought of Dick putting on the cape and cowl. Slowly, he shook his head. Bane was still out there. That, in a nutshell, was what it came down to. He could either ask part of Psion Force to risk their lives—yes, and his also, admittedly—trying to heal him, now, or he could condemn all of Psion Force, plus Nightwing, Robin, and Azrael, to risk their lives against Bane, later. Eventually, inevitably, it would come to that. Bane had come to Gotham solely to wrest it from its Dark Knight Protector. He had been successful, but Gotham wasn't a game, to be relinquished once played to its conclusion. Bane was here, and he was staying. And, for all Psion Force's power and experience, it wasn't lost on Bruce that they rarely dealt with his 'rogue's gallery,' preferring to concentrate on the sort of criminal that ended in Blackgate, not Arkham. They would adapt—if the past few nights were any indication, they were adapting—but how would they fare against the likes of the Joker? Coward. Ask yourself the real question. Can they handle themselves against Bane, when you couldn't?

Maybe, he was rationalizing—trying to find some altruistic reason to allow these people—barely more than children, some of them—to try this. Maybe, all he really wanted was a rematch. He had never been one to back away from a challenge before, and it wasn't in him to start now. One—no, two—things he knew: he did not want to be safe, not like this—and Psion Force had come to the same conclusion. He had made his decision. But he couldn't say the words. He looked down. "I," he began hoarsely, then coughed to clear his throat. "I'm not telling you that. Take your vote. I'll wait out in the hall." He gestured to the others, the non-Psion Forcers to join him.

As the door closed behind them, Tim placed his hand on Bruce's wrist. Bruce looked up at him questioningly. Tim met his gaze. "I haven't been around that much," he said in a low voice. "Just wanted to say 'sorry'."

Bruce placed his free, right hand over the boy's. It didn't take the world's greatest detective to deduce that Tim had enough on his plate, coming to terms with his father's condition. It wasn't that astonishing that the boy would have been absent from the manor. In fact, it was surprising that he had been here as much as he had. Bruce forced a smile, as the fingers of his left hand tapped lightly on the arm of the wheelchair. "It takes some getting used to," he said.

"Yeah."

The door opened to admit Brandon into the hallway. "They'll be ready for you in about five minutes."

Dick raised an eyebrow. "That was fast."

Brandon shrugged. "There wasn't really all that much to talk about. Oh, one thing Callie might have forgotten to mention: she said you probably won't notice results, right away."

Tim looked up. "Did she say how long?"

"She didn't, and I didn't ask her. Sorry. Um... you couldn't, by any chance, tell me where Fradon Creek Road is, could you?"

Dick frowned, thinking. "Yeah, that's west of here, maybe three miles. I could show you on a map."

Bran nodded. "So that's... what? About a forty-five minute walk?"

"Something like that," Dick agreed. "Why?"

"Anshei Kovnitz," Bruce broke in.

"Hunh?" Dick started.

Brandon grinned. "Somehow, I'm not surprised you know." For Dick's benefit, he added, "according to the Yellow Pages, there is a grand total of one synagogue in this neck of the woods, and the Anshei Kovnitz is it. And, being as today is Friday, and Shabbes—that's Sabbath to you starts at sundown, I need a place within walking distance to go for services."

Tim glanced up. "You call forty-five minutes 'walking distance?'"

"I've run for more than sixty minutes, in chain mail, with a twenty-five pound sword strapped to my waist, getting tangled in my legs. So, yes, as a matter of fact I do. Next question?"

"I thought you wear your sword strapped to your back."

"I do, now."

Bruce drew a deep breath. "The rest of you, wait out here. I think I'd better go in."

Brandon sighed. "Yeah, I guess you'd better. Oh, Bruce?"

Bruce paused.

"Could I ask what your mother's name was?"

Bruce turned his head, incredulous. "Why would you want to know?"

Bran smiled slowly. "Not meaning to get all holy-roller on you, but do you really think we're going to handle this alone?" Without waiting for an answer, he continued. "We're trying Callie's idea, because it could work. But, if it does—or doesn't it won't be Callie's doing." He looked skyward. "That didn't sound like it made sense. Look, if you go in for surgery, and it's a success, are you going to thank the scalpel, or the doctor? Most folks would agree that the scalpel is only the instrument. Let's just say, we take it a step further and believe that healing comes from one source only, and the doctor is as much an instrument as the scalpel. Make no mistake, the doctor is the correct instrument, but what Callie's going to do, whether it works or not, won't be due to her genius or lack thereof."

Bruce absorbed that. "And you need my mother's name because..."

Brandon looked away, trying to give the older man some measure of privacy. "When one says prayers for a sick person, one uses the full given names of that person and his or her mother's full given names. Just because the rest of us aren't needed for the procedure doesn't mean we can't make ourselves useful in other ways." He turned slowly back to Bruce, who was now sitting rigidly in the chair, face expressionless. Something in the eyes, however, perhaps due to some trick of the light, seemed infinitesimally softer.

"Martha," he whispered. "My mother's name was Martha."

Brandon nodded. "Any middle name? For either of you?"

Bruce shook his head.

"Alright then," the younger man said gently. "Go on in. Refuah shaleima."

Bruce opened the door. On the threshold, he looked back over his shoulder at Brandon. "Todah... Todah rabbah." Then he wheeled himself through.

Dick caught his eye. "What did you two just say?"

"I wished him a complete recovery. He thanked me." Brandon smiled, shaking his head. "I can't believe he knows Hebrew!"

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

Moments earlier...

Natalie focused on Maybelle. She and Callie had linked effortlessly and instantly, and Tabitha had allowed her mind to slip into the other two as easily as she could allow her body to slip into a wall. Maybelle, however, was proving a challenge.

I'm sorry! Her older sister flung out the thought for the fifth time in two minutes. It was a reflex, Natalie knew it was a reflex, but it was still frustrating. She drew a deep breath. If the link didn't work fast, she was going to push too hard. She thought about trying to bring Sophie in first, but didn't feel up to coping with a whole new batch of visual stimuli while simultaneously pulling in a resistant mind. Dimly she was aware of Callie sending a calming thought through the link.

Interesting. It wasn't that the other consciousnesses were subsumed within her own. She was not 'possessing' her sisters. But, if a normal psi-link was analogous to creating a gateway between two minds, what she was doing now was like wheeling back a retractable wall. That was the general idea, of course—a reduction of barriers to promote maximum efficiency—they all understood it. But Maybelle, much as she wanted to, could not lower her defenses for the fraction of a second that was required. It reminded Natalie of... hold on, that was an idea...

This is payback for every time you've told me not to blink when you're trying to put eyeliner on me, isn't it? She projected the idea lightly at her sister.

Mental laughter greeted her assertion, as Maybelle briefly relaxed her guard. Seizing her window, Natalie implemented the link.

Sneaky, Maybelle said within her mind.

Effective, though. And now, it was Sophie's turn.

Ohhhhh, this was not fun. A kaleidoscope of colors and indescribable 'not-colors' assaulted her, disorienting her. All Natalie wanted to do was pull back, abort, curl up in the fetal position. Too much. Too many lights and waves. Too many thoughts in her head—in their heads—it was just too much...

CALM! The thought insinuated itself forcefully within the other three minds, shocking them out of their panic. This was why Natalie had wanted her in the link, in the first place, Maybelle realized. If it were only a question of controlling the size of the lightning ball, she wouldn't have needed to be part of this gestalt. But Sophie's x-ray vision did need to be in the mix—and the very thing that had made Maybelle one of the chief liabilities to the plan also made her its greatest asset. Her mind was treating the sensory invasion as it would any other attack on her mind... on her perceptions—by setting up barriers, by giving her time to cope with the new input. She could still function but she was doing so instinctively. In order to show the others what needed to be done, she had to understand for herself. Smoothly, confidently, Maybelle reached out to Sophia. Show me, she propelled the thought at her oldest sister. Show US. Filter. Show us how. Understanding, Sophie threw an image back at her. It was a common black-and-white drawing, one typically found in books of optical illusions—a square containing the image of a wine cup on a black background. When one looked at the picture in a different way, however, it became two dark faces, noses and lips nearly touching, with white space in the middle. Faces... or cup... the two pictures were one, depending on what the mind willed to the surface. Faces... or cup... or visible light... or x-rays... or infrared... bring one aspect to the fore, and ignore the others unless and until they become necessary.

Understanding, and relief, spread through the link. They had it, now. They could function. They were ready. "Brandon," Natalie said, "tell Bruce 'five minutes'. We just want to run through procedure once."

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

Bronwen rose, as Bruce made his way in. "I hope you don't mind if Ali and I stay here for the duration. After this is over, we may need to help break the link."

Bruce grunted, unsure whether he could trust his voice after what Brandon had said. Behind him, he was aware of Jill leaving with Jaime in tow, just as he recognized the footfalls entering behind him as belonging to Dick. "Thought I told you to stay outside."

"Actually, you told me to wait outside," Dick said innocently. "I waited thirty seconds, and thought maybe that was long enough."

"It won't interfere," Natalie spoke up. At least, it sounded very much like Natalie's voice, but it was lower pitched, and the cadence was somewhat deeper. "The decision, of course, remains yours."

Dick took Bruce's silence as an invitation to stay. He noticed that Bronwen and Alison each held a small clothbound hard-covered book, with Hebrew letters on the cover. Without asking, Bronwen extended a larger volume to him. He recognized the Psalter as his eyes automatically flicked to the shelf it had come from and noted the empty space.

At one point, Barbara had come over to help him with a high school paper, and made a point of thanking Alfred for arranging the library in 'Dewey decimal order.' At the time, she had just made assistant librarian, and had been, perhaps, a bit too eager to share her newfound knowledge, but Dick had to admit that, to this day, he still had a pretty good idea of where to find any given volume in the manor library, thanks in no small part to that conversation.

"Please, make yourselves comfortable, both of you," Natalie was saying. Her tone carried a subtle authority, which the others in the room understood immediately to mean that she spoke for her other siblings in the link. In a very real sense, the others in the link were speaking through her."

Bruce raised an eyebrow. "I thought you'd want me to lie down."

Natalie smiled. "We... I..." she shook her head, "somebody needs to invent a new pronoun for this, I think. Given that in the link, there is one who can phase and one who can see what must be done, your position is immaterial. Please. Relax." The smile on Natalie's face seemed like it belonged more on Callie's. "Try."

Dick took the book from Bronwen. "His mother's name was Martha," he said softly.

"Thanks." Bronwen whipped out a pad and jotted something down on five lines, ripped off the sheet, and handed it to him: Bina bas Penina, Callanit bas Penina, Aviva bas Penina, Naamah bas Penina, Golda bas Penina.

"What's this?"

Bronwen waved a hand, indicating the gestalt. "Their Hebrew names. 'Bas' means 'daughter of,' and our mother's name was 'Penina.' It's risky for them too," she reminded him. "In Bruce's case, it would be 'Bruce ben Martha'." She pointed to the book. "Start at the beginning, just reciting them loud enough so you can hear them. Keep Bruce and my sisters in mind. Don't worry if you can't, all the time, it takes practice. When you finish the thirtieth one, start over. Between the five of us, we'll cover the entire book."

Dick nodded, not entirely understanding. Maybe, he didn't have to understand. Maybe all he had to do was something. "How did you know I was coming in?" He asked.

"I didn't. But odds were somebody was going to follow him in here."

Dick shook his head. "He didn't want that."

Bronwen shrugged. "Notice that didn't stop you for long." She smiled. "If the odds hadn't played out, Ali and I would have done forty-five apiece the first time, and if we had to do a second round, we would have done thirty. Bran and Jill would have done the same only in reverse. It would have balanced."

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

Bruce heard none of this. He sat, watching with detached interest as Maybelle formed a miniscule sphere, perhaps the diameter of a grain of millet. Although the chestnut-haired woman had created the sphere, it was Callie's green eyes that screwed shut in concentration. As Bruce looked on, a faint nimbus surrounded the tiny globe. Tabitha stretched out her hand, and took it between thumb and forefinger. Of course, he realized. She has to become intangible in order to maneuver the orb—telekinetic propulsion must not have any effect on the ephemeral. But if she and the globe are both intangible, then she would need a buffer of some kind, or the electricity would affect her, too. It really was fascinating.

Tabitha circled behind the wheelchair, using Sophie's eyes and Callie's guidance, while Natalie monitored. Bruce thought he felt a shiver as her hand passed into him, but that could have been his imagination.

"Brace," Natalie said, her voice startlingly loud above the low murmur of three voices reciting, two in Hebrew, one in English. "Telekinetic forcefield will drop in three... two... one..."

There was no pain. There was a vibration, which seemed to set his teeth on edge, and a not-unpleasant warmth that traveled up his spine. But below the point of injury, there was nothing. It hadn't worked.

He looked up to see Maybelle readying a second sphere. Again, the procedure was repeated. Again, the results were the same. After the sixth attempt, Natalie waited for him to meet her gaze. "We will leave this for now. We may need additional sessions later."

Bruce tried to hide his disappointment, as the five disengaged from the link, shaky and disoriented, but no more the worse for the experience. "You tried," he said quietly.

"And may have succeeded," Callie reminded him. "We've never done this before and the effects could be delayed."

"Or non-existent," he said flatly.

"That's possible," Callie admitted, "but I'm not ready to go that far yet." She favored him with a penetrating look. "You shouldn't be, either," she stated.

Bruce managed a nod, before he wheeled himself from the room.

Dick looked up from the Psalter. "Did you mean what you just said?" he asked, "or were you just hoping against hope?"

Callie blinked solemnly. "Yes, to the former. As for the latter, I've done nothing else since Alfred and Jean-Paul brought him into the ambulance. So far, he's survived, he's out of ICU, and, all things considered, in better condition than we've had any right to expect. He's pulling out of his depression, and, yesterday, he actually ate three full meals. Right now, I'd say 'hoping against hope'—not to mention some old-fashioned prayer, seems to be holding a fairly impressive track record."

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

It was perhaps an hour later that Dick came across Sophie walking along one of the hallways on the first floor, opening doors, peering quickly into the rooms and then shutting the doors firmly again. "Looking for something?" he asked.

"Someone," Sophie corrected. "Shabbes comes in late, in the summer. I wanted to put Jaime down for a nap so he'd be able to stay up and have supper with the rest of us." She smiled. "Of course, I know he's probably with Bruce, but after this afternoon, I don't know if Bruce would really want to see me, or any of us, so fast. I guess I'm exploring other avenues first. Silly, really. I may as well head up."

Dick stopped her. "Don't worry. I'll check if he's in there." He bounded up the stairs.

Sophie followed. "By-the-bye," she said, "lead paint really isn't that healthy."

"You're not the first person Bruce with x-ray vision that Bruce has ever met."

Opening the door to the room, Dick stopped. Jaime was sitting on Bruce's lap, in the wheelchair, eyes closed, mouth open, head leaning against Bruce's arm and shoulder, sound asleep. Bruce put his finger to his lips. Dick grinned. "I think you'd both be more comfortable if he was in his own bed," he whispered, trying not to laugh as he bent down to take the boy.

Bruce noted his ward's amusement, and allowed himself a small half-smile. "Thanks," he said. He tried to flex his shoulder, and grimaced. "My arm seems to have fallen asleep."

Dick smiled back sympathetically. "I'm just going to pass him to his mother, and I'll be right back," he said softly.

He returned to the room to see Bruce sitting where he had left him, now with a stunned expression on his face.

"Bruce?" Then, more sharply "Bruce!"

No answer.

Dick was getting nervous. "Bruce, what's wrong?" Should he call Callie?

"Bruce, answer me!" He gripped both shoulders. If he didn't get a response in about ten seconds he'd—

Bruce placed the palms of his hands flat over Dick's arms. His voice was barely audible as he whispered, "My foot seems to have fallen asleep, too."