A/N: Thanks for reviewing, JessicaRae95 and CutieBats! :) And thanks to everyone for being patient with me!

Two days later:

Tank had allowed Sam to go back to his cell. The infirmary had remained empty, so Dick was still under Tank's watchful eye. Marcus had the open cell on the second floor, but the nurse was determined to keep the nine-year-old with him for as long as possible.

The warden had answered Tank's call, but hadn't been able to do anything about the situation. Only the warden could sign the paperwork for any type of release; the interim warden didn't have that authority. Warden Wiskin wasn't sure how long he would be gone, but he assured Tank that he would check on the boy as soon as he returned to work.

Every time Dick woke up, the first thing he did was ask about Sam. Where was Sam, did Sam need Dick to do anything, was Sam okay, and on and on. Tank always changed the subject, but somehow Dick would redirect the conversation back to Sam at least once.

Tank was currently sitting at his desk with his office door open, filling out some paperwork. Dick, whose bed was in Tank's direct line of sight, abruptly sat up. The nurse jumped to his feet and strode quickly to the boy's side.

"Good morning, Dick."

"Has Sam had breakfast? He might need me to bring him breakfast. You said he was sick. Is he still sick?"

"He's fine, how are you feeling?"

"Are you sure? I thought…"

"Yes," Tank said with a frustrated sigh. "How are you feeling, Dick?"

"That doesn't matter…"

"No, Sam doesn't matter. Do your ribs hurt? How does your nose feel?"

Dick's mouth dropped open in shock at the nurse's words. Sam didn't matter?! Obviously the man didn't care, which meant that Sam probably wouldn't want Dick to talk to him. So Dick shut his mouth and folded his arms across his chest, sending a slight glare into the eyes of the nurse.

"This entire situation is ridiculous," Tank muttered as he unfolded Dick's arms and probed his ribs.

The boy's breathing was better, but there was still a slight wheeze. He didn't flinch when Tank gently pressed on his ribs, which was much better than his reaction yesterday – a yelp and almost falling off the bed while trying to get away from the touch.

Tank saw the agony that flashed through the boy's expressive eyes, though. He also didn't miss the fact that Dick was holding his breath during the entire examination. Dick was trying to be strong. The nurse knew the nine-year-old was intelligent, and probably thought that appearing strong and healthy would convince Tank to send him back to Sam.

Tank glared at the bruised shin, wishing he had an x-ray machine. It was definitely fractured, at the very least, but he couldn't do anything about it without knowing the extent of the injury.

"Okay, Dick, I need you to get up and walk for me."

The light-blue eyes widened in dismay, and the boy hesitated.

"Your leg hurts," Tank commented.

Dick just stared at him, fear flitting around the dismay. But, to Tank's surprise, the nine-year-old turned his body so his legs were hanging over the side of the bed. Tank watched a drop of blood appear on Dick's lip as the boy bit down hard, trying to distract himself from the pain in his leg by making something else hurt.

"Let me help you get down," Tank suggested.

Dick ignored him, carefully sliding himself over the edge of the bed and landing lightly on his feet. Clenching his jaw, the nine-year-old put all of his weight on his left leg and took a step with his right foot. A step that wasn't really a step, because his foot didn't even touch the ground.

"Dick," Tank sighed, "I'm not an idiot. And I'm not going to make the injury worse by having you walk on it."

"I have to get back to Sam. You don't understand, Sam needs me to do stuff for him."

Dick's voice was sullen, but there was a pleading tone. The dot of blood from his lip dribbled down his chin when he spoke. He swiped the back of his right hand across his face, and when he saw the smear of red, he burst into tears.

"Hey, it's okay," Tank said softly, gently picking him up and sitting him on the bed again. "You're going to be okay, but you have to forget about Sam."

"I can't, I can't, I killed Chuck and he hates me and I have to do…"

"Dick, you did not kill Chuck!" Tank almost shouted. "Get that idiotic piece of misinformation out of your stubborn little head! Sam is not good for you! He's using you, and everything he has done has not been for your benefit. You're not going back. Ever!"

"Please," Dick begged, "please, I need him. Nobody else cares, everyone is mean, I need him! You don't understand!"

"I care," Tank replied softly. "Marcus cares, and Bruce Wayne cares. Do you remember Mr. Wayne?"

Tears were streaming down Dick's face, but he was quiet as he tried to picture the man in his mind. There was that slightly-familiar floating face that was always saying he wanted to help. Maybe that was Mr. Wayne?

"Help?" Dick asked quietly, his voice trembling.

"Yes," Tank responded, "we want to help you. Dick, you are not supposed to be in this place. You just lost your family – your entire world, really – and Sanderson should not have even brought you here. 'No room' is not an excuse for putting you in jail and leaving you here. I'm trying to get you out, and Mr. Wayne is trying to help with that."

I hope he is, anyway.

Tank had no real confirmation of that from Bruce, but his gut told him that the millionaire wasn't just checking on the boy once in a while. The nurse was fairly certain that Bruce wanted to get Dick out, and Tank really hoped it was going to happen soon.

"Sam is my family now," Dick stated, dropping his gaze to the ground. "I don't have anyone, only Sam knows me."

Tank, for what felt like the hundredth time in less than a week, wanted to grab the small shoulders and shake some sense into the young mind. He had no idea how to correct Dick's line of thinking; the boy was brainwashed into believing everything Sam said.

"Do you remember anything about this past week?" the nurse asked. "Besides the fact that Sam 'needs' you," he amended.

Maybe his concussion had caused Dick to forget the beatings he had taken at Sam's direction. Perhaps he didn't even know he had almost died because of those beatings.

Lifting his head, Dick stated, "I played games, and I always lost because I'm not good at the games."

Tank sighed and replied, "You were in one-sided fights, not playing games. Sam had people beat you up so that you would comply with whatever he said. He used terror to brainwash you…"

"I'm not brainwashed," Dick responded with another glare.

"Do you even know what that means?"

The nine-year-old hesitated, then lied, "Yes."

Tank looked at him skeptically, causing Dick to drop his head again.

"Um, no," the boy whispered. "But Sam is always right."

"That right there, what you just said, proves that you are brainwashed. Nobody is always right, Dick. In fact, Sam is rarely right."

The comment caused Dick to snap his head up.

"Sam is always right," he retorted.

"Dick, I'm fairly intelligent, and I know that you are not an idiot. Sam controls people with fear. How often have you felt scared this week?"

The question hung in the air for almost a minute. Tank studied the expressive eyes, waiting for any sign that Dick remembered something about his first day or so in the center. It didn't take long; fear and confusion immediately rushed through the light-blue circles as silence filled the room.

Finally, the boy whispered, "I, um…a lot. Everybody hates me, but Sam said I did something terrible and deserve to be here."

Tank almost turned around and punched the wall. He had no idea how he was able to restrain himself, because the fact that Dick thought he deserved to be here caused fury to fill his entire body. Instead, he closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and silently counted to ten.

"I'm sorry," Dick said when Tank internally said five. "Do you hate me, too?"

The nurse shook his head but couldn't yet trust himself to speak. Reaching the number ten, he slowly opened his eyes. Dick was staring at him, despair etched on his young face.

"There are at least three people who don't hate you. Myself, the guard who checked you in – Marcus – and Mr. Wayne."

"Oh," Dick replied softly, dropping his head again.

With another frustrated sigh, Tank stated, "You only know five people, and three of us want to help you."

"I killed…"

He paused when Tank sucked in a sharp breath.

"No, not Chuck," he said quickly, lifting his head. "Wherever I was before this, I killed someone and the guy put me here."

"You were in a circus, and you did not kill anyone. Your parents died in an accident, and your idiotic social worker thought it would be a good idea to put you here."

"So…he hates me, too?"

The phone in Tank's office rang, saving him from launching into a speech about how he felt about Jeff Sanderson. Holding up a finger, he turned around, strode to his office, and picked up the phone.

"Bruce Wayne wants to see the kid again."

Hope rushed through his chest and Tank's sigh was full of relief this time.

"I'll bring him over myself. We're in the middle of an important conversation and I need to calm him down, so give us five minutes."

The guard on the other end of the phone hummed in agreement and hung up. Tank replaced the receiver and, turning around, was greeted with the sight of an empty bed. Dick was gone, probably on his way to try to find Sam.

"Idiot," Tank growled.

He didn't mean it – Dick was obviously intelligent – but the nine-year-old was stubborn, and the nurse was both frustrated and angry. Wishing he really could just shake some sense into the boy's brain, Tank strode out the door to search for him.

Dick waited until Tank picked up the phone before making his escape. Clenching his jaw, the nine-year-old slid off the bed. His right leg buckled, but he forced the pain away by chomping down on his tongue. Ignoring the taste of his own blood, Dick half-hopped to the door of the infirmary.

Glancing back at the nurse, and finding him still on the phone, Dick quietly opened the door and limped into the hallway. If he could find the guard who hated him, he would be taken back to Sam – where he was supposed to be at all times.

Bruce Wayne was impatient. He had arrived less than five minutes ago, and the guard had immediately picked up the phone to notify…someone. Bruce was hoping the guard would say Dick was no longer in the detention center. But that tiny flame of hope was extinguished when the guard hung up the phone.

"Tank'll bring him here in about five minutes, Mr. Wayne. You wanna go in?"

Giving a short nod, Bruce strode to the door separating the lobby from the visitors room. The guard buzzed it open, and the millionaire walked straight to his 'usual' table. Tank had Dick, that was good. However, did that mean that Dick had taken a beating again?

Three minutes later, Bruce began drumming his fingers on the table and checking his watch every ten seconds. Five minutes after that, the man stood up and started pacing. Where were they?

Dick was currently in a bathroom, sitting under a sink and leaning against the cool tile of the wall. His entire body was dripping with sweat, and the pain in his leg was almost overwhelming. He had nearly passed out twice while roaming the hallways. The edges of his vision were dark, and the room kept swimming in and out of focus.

"Sam," he whispered.

That word was keeping him awake. He had to find Sam, because Sam would know how to fix whatever was wrong with Dick. Sam was perfect, and always right, and Dick owed him everything.

The door to the bathroom opened, and Dick wearily raised his head. Whomever had come in was just a blob of colors.

"Well, look who we have here."

Ron's voice sounded different, but Dick didn't really care. He recognized it, and knew that this man could take him to Sam.

"Sam," the boy whispered again.

"Yeah, we'll go see Sam in a little while. You and I have some things to work out first."

Ron bent down, grabbed Dick's left arm, and yanked him out from under the sink. The nine-year-old grunted in pain, but willingly stood up when Ron pulled on his arm.

"Walk," Ron demanded.

Dick tried, but his right leg buckled as soon as he moved it.

Ron gave him a shove, and Dick tumbled to the ground. His left arm landed first, the cast on his wrist sending a loud 'crack' echoing around the bathroom as a small crevice appeared in the middle. The head guard grumbled something, then bent down again and scooped the boy into his arms.

"Let's have a chat, somewhere in a place nobody will think to look."

Grinning, Ron headed for the teenage block. Lunch had just begun, and nobody would be in that block for at least an hour. Dick stared up at him for a moment, then closed his eyes and allowed the pain to pull him into darkness.