“He’ll keep.”

Only eight years old, Bruce lay at the bottom of the abandoned well. His arm throbbed as though broken. Frightened and in pain, the frenzied flapping of the bats still echoing in his mind, he watched anxiously as his father descended on a rope to rescue him. Thomas Wayne hurried to comfort his son.

“And why do we fall?” he asked.

Bruce knew the answer. Had known it his entire life.

“To learn to pick ourselves up.”

Bruce awoke on his cot, no longer a child, but trapped once again at the bottom of a pit. This time his father would not be coming to rescue him. He would have to save himself.

But how?

The blind doctor sat beside the cot. He cleared his throat to get Bruce’s attention.

“You do not fear death,” he said. “You think this makes you strong. It makes you weak.”

Bruce didn’t understand. He had always fought to overcome his fear.

“Why?” he asked.

“How can you move faster than possible,” the other man asked, “fight longer than possible, if not from the most powerful impulse of the spirit? The fear of death. The will to survive.”

Self-preservation, Bruce realized. He got up on his elbow, ignoring the latest battery of aches and bruises.

“I do fear death,” he said. “I fear dying in here while my city burns with no one there to save it.”

“Then make the climb,” the blind man said.

I’ve already tried that, Bruce thought. Twice.

“How?” he asked.

“As the child did. Without the rope.” The blind man cackled. “Then fear will find you again.”

Bruce pondered the doctor’s words all night, weighing the risks, before finally reaching a decision. Early next morning, he prepared for what was bound to be his final ascent, one way or another. He tucked a few scraps of bread into a rough wool coat, which he then folded into a makeshift shoulder pack.

The European watched him pack.

“Supplies for your journey?” he asked derisively. Nearby prisoners laughed as Bruce marched toward the cliff face yet again, this time decked out as if he actually expected to reach the top. His caretaker followed after him, intrigued by Bruce’s new demeanor. At the foot of the climb, the tattooed man offered Bruce the safety rope.

Bruce shook his head, and waved it off.

Not this time.

That did it. Word rapidly spread that the crazy American had refused the rope. A crowd gathered to watch the literally death-defying ascent. Carefully, methodically, relying less on raw fury than before, he climbed the treacherous rock face. He tested each bulge and crack, unwilling to throw away his life through carelessness or impatience.

The familiar chanting began anew.

He never wanted to hear it again.

For the last time, he approached the fatal jump. As he hoisted himself onto the ledge, he startled a nest of bats roosting beneath it. They exploded from the side of the cliff in a flurry of leathery wings that momentarily transported him back to that abandoned well, so many years ago. The bats screeched in his ears, buffeting his face and body, threatening to dislodge him. His heart pounded wildly.