4:02 PM Robin. Two weeks after the incident.

Wednesdays were the worst—and by worst, I meaning playing soccer with a bowling ball worst (Yeah, just take a moment to visualize that—that's where I'm at right about now). Some people give Wednesdays credit, calling it hump day. Yeah, I was getting humped alright, and Wednesday wasn't even calling me the next day.

It was like the cosmos made fun of me on Wednesdays. I managed to get survive the hazing of Monday and Tuesday but then their really mean and ugly older brothers Wednesday and Thursday showed up like, "WHAT?!" I equate it to being lost in the jungle and finding my way out, only to find myself standing on the bank of a river infested with a gazillion hungry alligators…and I'm wearing lamb-chop scented cologne. By the time I climb out of the water, in what's left of my clothes—bite marks notwithstanding—I still had homework to do; a butt-load of physics and analytic geometry homework plus I had to write an essay for English.

Sigh. English teachers were fascists.

Then the doorbell rang.

"I got it!" I yelled, jumping up and racing for the stairs. I needed a break from factoring and domains and ranges.

Domains and ranges were fascists, too.

I slid down the railing and landed like a boss; the speed was disappointing but it was always more fun than walking.

"Tim, for the last time, stop jumping on the rail! It's antique!" Dad yelled from the kitchen. He always knew when I was sliding because he didn't hear the old steps moan.

I bowed to my audience—of no one—and I gave my dismount a ten, laughing to myself as I pulled the door open. My jaw dropped and I slammed the door shut. Okay, there's no way that that's Bruce Wayne on my porch. Billionaires don't come onto this block, much less to my house. When I open this door again, it's gonna be some door-to-door vacuum salesman.

I opened the door again.

Mr. Wayne's eyebrow rose and so did a welcoming hand. "Hi. My name is—"

"Bruce Wayne! Holy crap!" I couldn't believe it. I mean, what were the chances. I saw Batman and Nightwing (well I suppose they could have just been a bunch of maniacs in costumes but whatever) and then Bruce Wayne all in just one month. I should have been playing the lottery…well, my dad should have been since I wasn't old enough.

Mr. Wayne smiled, "Yes, I'm Bruce Wayne. I see that you've heard of me."

"Are you kidding? You're, like, one of the richest people in the galaxy!"

The guy was huge—much bigger than he looked on TV. He must've been, like, six-foot-three or six-foot-four and yoked—even in the grey suit and purple tie that he was wearing. I guessed when you have that kind of money, you can afford to be at the gym all day long.

"Tim," my dad yelled from the kitchen, "who's at the door?"

"It's Bruce Wayne, Dad!" I yelled back. I smiled at Mr. Wayne, he smiled back at me.

"Seriously, who's at the door?"

"Dad, I'm as serious as a hole in the head, it's Bruce Wayne! Come see for yourself!"

A few seconds later, my dad came down the hallway to the door and stopped short when he saw our visitor. "Holy crap, it is Bruce Wayne." He paused and inspected Mr. Wayne and then said finally, "What's he doing here?"

I shrugged. "I don't know. Ask him," I thrusted a thumb at Mr. Wayne, "he's right here."

Dad approached suspiciously, not completely convinced that Mr. Wayne was actually standing on our doorstep. "Are you—are you lost Mr. Wayne?"

Mr. Wayne slid a hand into his pocket. "No—no, I'm not lost. I'm here deliberately as a matter of fact."

Cue the awkward silence…

I looked at him, he looked at me, I looked at my dad, my dad looked at me, Mr. Wayne looked at my dad, and my dad looked at Mr. Wayne. Then we repeated, awkwardly. Way-to-go, Drake-family.

Mr. Wayne broke the awkwardness, "May I come in?" I'm sure he was used to these kind of meetings.

Dad suddenly came to life. "Oh, crap, yeah. Please, come in. Where are my manners? I'm sorry for being rude, we don't get celebrities very often."

"You mean ever," I said trying to keep it real. Dad gave me a hard look.

"Can I offer you anything to drink?" he asked ushering Mr. Wayne down the hallway towards the kitchen. "I've got water, soda, beer. Can I interest you in anything?"

"No, I'm quite alright, Mr. Drake," Mr. Wayne said remaining at the door and not following.

Dad and I looked at each other thinking the exact same thing: Bruce Wayne knew my dad's name! Mr. Wayne didn't seem to notice our surprise or at least he pretended that he didn't notice. He just looked around at pictures that my mom had hanging on the walls and all of her decorations and knick-knacks.

"Please excuse the mess, Mr. Wayne—"

"Please, just call me Bruce."

Dad and I looked at each other again.

"Mr. Drake to spare you the awkwardness, I'll just get straight to the point. The two of you may know that I'm the proprietor of the Wayne Foundation which is a nonprofit organization that was instituted to help citizens in need. Not to insert myself into your family's affairs, but I'd like to extend the service of the Wayne Foundation to your family."

My dad's brow wrinkled with suspicion. "Well, that's mighty nice of you Mr. Wayne—"

"Bruce," Mr. Wayne corrected.

"Uh—Bruce—but I'm not one to take money from people."

"Well then, I have to apologize, Mr. Drake."

"No—no, Bruce. I appreciate your generosity—"

Mr. Wayne cut dad off again, "I've already settled Mrs. Drake's medical accounts."

"What?" Dad asked practically choking on his words. "My wife's? Which ones?"

"All of them," Mr. Wayne deadpanned. "Forever."

"What?" Even though Mr. Wayne spoke English, my dad clearly didn't understand what he was saying…

"I'm also here to deliver the deed to your new home as well as the keys." Mr. Wayne drew his hand from his pocket and dangled them between us.

"What?"

Dad was really making a poor showing with all the 'whats' he kept dropping.

Dad stared into Mr. Wayne's face bewildered. Then he looked at me—like I had an answer to this…I was just the guy who opened the door—and back to Mr. Wayne and then out into the street as if someone outside had an answer.

"I have to—" Dad started and then stopped. "Is this some kinda joke? You got a camera crew with you?"

Mr. Wayne laughed, "No—no, I assure you, Mr. Drake, this is no joke nor are you the subject of reality TV. I shook the paparazzi about two subdivions ago."

Dad looked at Mr. Wayne even deeper now.

Mr. Wayne jingled the keys. "Go on, Mr. Drake. Take them, they're yours. You know what?" Mr. Wayne drew a folded sheet of paper from inside of his jacket, unfolded it, and showed it to both of us. "Here is the deed. Notice your name is on it and that it's notarized."

Dad leaned in to inspect it.

"See? No gimmicks."

"Dad," I said as soon as I finished reading it. "Is that real?"

Dad's brow softened, "I—uh—yeah. I—uh—I don't know what to say."

"You don't have to say anything, sir," Mr. Wayne said with a smile.

Dad ran his hand through his hair seemingly stressed. "What do want in return?"

"Mr. Drake, the Wayne Foundation asks for nothing in return. Again, its sole purpose is to aid Gothamites in need. I would like to further extend an invitation for you and your son, Tim, to ride with me in my limousine so that I can show the two of you your new home." He extended his arm towards his limo waiting on the side of the street; by now, some of the neighbors were nosily beginning to gather in their porches trying to figure out who rated a limo. "Will you be accompanying me?"

I didn't hesitate. "Hell yeah! Lemme get my phone!" I was going to be the talk of the town at school tomorrow! "Be right back!"

"Wait." Dad's hand shot up. "Hold on just a second. What's going on here?"

I stopped two steps up the stairs and Mr. Wayne's smile was instantly replaced with a confused expression.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Drake?" he asked.

"No one—especially Gotham's wealthiest playboy—just shows up on the doorstep offering up money." Suspicion dripped from Dad's mouth. "What's going on here? Because, if this is some kind of joke…it's not funny."

"Mr. Drake," Mr. Wayne started, inserting his key-hand into the pocket of his slacks, "my father, Thomas Wayne before his murder, established the Wayne Foundation to support those in need. I'm here for that reason and no other. I apologize if you feel slighted by me going behind your back and paying your accounts—I am notoriously impulsive.

"Now, I'd be honored if you and your son would accompany me to your new house. I think you'll be pleased. However, if you would prefer to go on your own, I understand. Although, I did have an ulterior motive for the car ride: My intent was to use that time to discuss with you and your son about his continued education and the scholarship options that Wayne Enterprises offers for students of Tim's aptitude. What do you say?" Mr. Wayne smiled huge but there was something telling about his eyes, they didn't compliment his smile. I couldn't quite place it. He didn't seem insincere so I was all for it.

"I say, hell yeah!" I yelled. "C'mon, Dad, get it together!"

"That's the spirit, Tim." Mr. Wayne raised a brow towards my dad. "Mr. Drake?"

Dad watched me sprint up the stairs. "Uh—sure. Let me grab my coat. Tim, wear a coat!"

"Yes sir!"

"Excellent. I will be waiting in the car," I heard Mr. Wayne say as I came back to the stairs. "Please, take your time. We're in no rush," he finished as he opened the front door and returned to the waiting vehicle.