When Dr. Patel applied for permission to take three of his patients swimming at the County Pool, all of Joan Leland’s alarm bells went off.

Dr. Patel proposed to hire an unmarked prisoner transport van so no one would know these were Arkham inmates. The pool could be reserved for a private swim so they wouldn’t have to worry about members of the general public. The van would have two expert drivers, and Dr. Patel had lined up staff members willing to volunteer for extra duty. Should any problems occur, the patients could be quickly subdued and returned to Arkham.

The safety and security arrangements weren’t what Dr. Leland was worried about. What had set off her alarm bells was the fact that the proposal was completely unlike Chetan Patel. He was a man of cool reserve who normally believed in keeping psychotic patients calm and avoiding excessive stimulation. In Dr. Patel’s view, their minds were already prone to chaos; many of them had visual and auditory hallucinations even when they weren’t agitated. Keeping them peaceful prevented undesirable behavior, which, in many cases, was the best anyone could hope for. Dr. Leland thought swimming sounded like the antithesis of what Dr. Patel was trying to accomplish.

“On the contrary,” Dr. Patel told her when they met in her office to discuss it, “I’m not talking about a free-swim situation where they all splash around and jump off the diving board. I’m talking about attaching water wings or belts to my three most well-behaved patients so they can float quietly, perhaps with soft, New Age music in the background. There’d be enough room in an Olympic-sized pool for them to drift about calmly, each with a nurse to look after them so they wouldn’t bump into each other. Buoyed up, relieved of even the minimal struggle against gravity, they might even achieve a meditative state.”

“I’m not so sure about the New Age music,” Dr. Leland said.

The joke went past Dr. Patel unnoticed. “Then we’ll play recordings of whale songs,” he said. “I hear that’s even more calming. Very spiritual. These people are in dire need of something to feed their spirits, but without any dogma, of course.”

“I don’t know about the patients but I’d like to try that myself,” Dr. Leland said.

“So would I,” said Dr. Patel with a chuckle. “I’ve been familiarizing myself with various forms of hydrotherapy. There are flotation tanks where you float in very salty water with no sensory input—”

“Forget it,” Dr. Leland told him firmly.

“I know,” said Dr. Patel. “That kind of therapy might be appropriate for only a very few patients. It occurred to me while I was researching that we have to avoid becoming too set in our ways. There’s a fine line between calm and monotony. In our desire to avoid trouble, that line can become blurred to the detriment of patient care.”

“Good point,” Dr. Leland said, meaning it even as she wondered about him. Patel was conscientious and kept current but he wasn’t an innovator. “I’d like to read this research of yours before I make a decision.”

“I knew you would so I’ve prepared a folder I can email you as soon as I get back to my office.” Dr. Patel’s smile was actually eager, like he hadn’t spent a dozen years trying to erase the line between calm and monotony. “There are also a few videos but they aren’t too long—forty-five minutes at most. When would you like to meet again to discuss it?”

“I’ll let you know,” she said.

Dr. Patel’s smile faded. “Well, we’re all busy,” he said with a disappointed sigh. “But I wanted to move on this as soon as possible—”

“I’m sorry I can’t tell you we’ll get together at the end of the week or first thing Monday,” Dr. Leland replied, irritated. “I’ve been subpoenaed to testify before the grand jury in the corruption case and I have to prepare. There may be a preliminary hearing.”

Now Dr. Patel looked utterly baffled. “What for?”

Dr. Leland wondered if he were kidding now. “There have been financial irregularities connected to some Arkham board members. It’s been all over the news.”

The man shook his head. “I never watch the news. Too agitating.” He started to get up.

“One question before you go,” she said suddenly. “This swimming idea of yours—did you get it from Dr. Quinzel?”

Dr. Patel’s dark brown eyes were astonished. “Good heavens, no. She’s the last person I’d get an idea from.”

“Oh?” Dr. Leland’s eyebrows strained toward her hairline. “Do you have a problem with her? Or do you feel that I’m wrong to let her concentrate on one patient?”

Dr. Patel hesitated, then sat down again, moved his chair a little closer to her desk and lowered his voice. “That was your decision to make,” he said. “And I know you’ve taken more of her patients so the rest of us wouldn’t be too overburdened. It’s not how I would have done things but I’m not in charge.”

Dr. Leland nodded. “And your feelings about Dr. Quinzel?”

“She’s young,” Dr. Patel said. “If it had been up to me, I don’t think I would have hired someone so inexperienced and, for lack of a better word, eager. She’s quite brilliant; I don’t dispute that. But she’s—well, young and brilliant. Compared to everyone else here, she’s practically an innocent. I don’t mean to disrespect her. I can see she’s intelligent and, personally, I like her. But I wouldn’t ask her to consult on one of my cases.”

“You might feel differently if you’d seen her handle a fire extinguisher,” Dr. Leland said, more to herself. “Never mind. I’d just like to know where you got the idea.”

Dr. Patel shrugged. “I read some articles and they stuck with me. It seems to be very current in the field right now. I’m not one for being trendy but I won’t dismiss a good idea just because it’s the topic du jour.”

The hell he wouldn’t, Dr. Leland thought, hiding her amusement. “So nobody mentioned putting in a swimming pool here?”

“At Arkham?” Dr. Patel looked appalled. “That’s a horrible idea! The first day, it’d be full of bodies floating face down by lunchtime.”

* * *

A few days later, a nurse named Jack Abraham sought her out as she was on her way back to her office after a session with Phil the Phish Phrobisher. Harleen Quinzel had not used the term “boring” in Phrobisher’s file but Dr. Leland wouldn’t have blamed her. He seemed determined to follow the path of least resistance to entropy. Dr. Quinzel’s concentrated, full-immersion therapy would roll off him with no effect. Dr. Patel, on the other hand, would have regarded his treatment as successful in that he didn’t engage in any undesirable behavior.

Phrobisher definitely deserved to be confined for life but, in Dr. Leland’s opinion, in prison, not Arkham Asylum. Unfortunately, his lawyer had made an iron-clad deal. When she had queried it, the board sent her a terse note saying they were sure the head of Arkham Asylum had more important things to think about, like possible budget cuts. Whoever was looking out for Phrobisher had probably been well insured, especially against fire, Dr. Leland thought, and turned her attention to next year’s budget.

“You got a minute, Dr. L?” Jack Abraham asked, falling into step beside her. He was an ex-Marine with combat experience, husky though not linebacker-sized like most of the orderlies.

“Give or take ten seconds,” she said cheerfully. Jack Abraham seldom asked for anything or made complaints. “What’s on your mind?”

“I was wondering what your thoughts are on Dr. Patel’s proposal for swimming therapy,” the nurse said chattily. “I told him I’d volunteer as support.”

“I see,” Dr. Leland said, slightly unsettled. “Let’s discuss this in my office. But I really don’t have more than a minute.” She unlocked the door, gesturing for him to take the chair in front of her desk. “Why the sudden interest in swimming?” she asked as she sat down, opening one of the file folders she’d been carrying to remind him she was busy.

“It’s not really sudden,” Jack said, looking ever so slightly defensive. “I’ve always believed exercise is great therapy—been a gym rat all my life, even before I joined the Corps. I still hit the Gotham Health Center three or four times a week. Arkham doesn’t have a gym and, considering who our patients are, it’s just as well. But they all need exercise, and swimming is good for all ages and every level of fitness.”

Dr. Leland nodded, glancing down at the contents of the folder without really seeing them. “So I’ve been told by Dr. Patel, at length and in detail.” She paused, frowning thoughtfully. “He didn’t put you up to this, did he?”

“Oh, no, not at all,” Jack said, looking worried now. “He doesn’t even know I’m talking to you, I swear.”

“Your support and willingness to volunteer is noted, and I’ll take it into consideration,” Dr. Leland told him. “But now I really can’t give you any more time.”

“No problem,” Jack said, getting to his feet. “I appreciate your letting me give you my input on it.”

“I promise I’ll think it over carefully,” she said, pretending to be absorbed in the file. “Anything else?”

“No, just thanks again for listening.” He was cheerful but there was a hint of disappointment in his voice.

* * *

“So have you joined the swimming campaign?” Dr. Leland asked the Joker. It was just the two of them in his cell, while Dr. Quinzel waited in the hall. Dr. Leland swore she could feel the woman’s apprehension coming through the wall like heat.

The Joker blinked at her in what seemed to be genuine bewilderment. “What swimming campaign?”

“Don’t you want to go to the County Pool?” she asked. “Enjoy the numerous benefits of hydrotherapy and no-impact aerobic exercise?”

“Is this some nefarious plot hatched by the Looney Ladi—excuse me—by the female patients to get me into a Speedo? Don’t answer, that’s a joke.” Pause. “I hope.”

“So you don’t want to try out for the Arkham Asylum swim team,” Dr. Leland said, amused.

“Not to be flippant or disrespectful, doctor,” the Joker said slowly, “but do I look like a man who wants to be seen in swimming trunks?” He studied her for a moment. “Does Dr. Quinzel know we’re having this conversation?”

“Of course,” said Dr. Leland. “She agreed to let me interview you at any time, on a moment’s notice if need be, without her being present.”

“With all due respect, this feels more like an interrogation than an interview,” the Joker said. “And I have enough experience with each to know the difference.”

Dr. Leland was sure he did. “Has Dr. Quinzel said anything to you about swimming therapy or exercise?”

“She’s mentioned maybe getting me a stationary bike or a treadmill,” he said. “But walking or riding a bike to nowhere seems more like an exercise in futility.” He sighed. “No, Dr. Leland, we’ve never discussed swimming. Although a Jacuzzi would be nice.”

* * *

Harleen didn’t pace or hop from one foot to the other—Nathan the orderly sitting outside the Joker’s cell would have reported that to Dr. Leland, and there was no telling what she’d make of it. At the moment, Dr. Leland was very much in favor of her therapy program for its salutary effect on the Joker. Even some of the orderlies were saying he’d changed for the better. But Harleen wasn’t taking any chances, especially now.

After the women’s group fiasco, her current success made her want to do cartwheels through the halls for joy, and yet she had to be more guarded than ever. Because professional achievement wasn’t the only reason she loved coming to work every day. It wasn’t even the biggest.

At first, she’d tried to deny her feelings, telling herself it was only countertransference—very intense and powerful, but nothing more. It was perfectly normal. People became psychiatrists in the first place because they wanted to help people and doing that stirred up a lot of emotions. But the therapist couldn’t let them interfere with the treatment. The patient’s best interests were the most important consideration; the doctor had to put the patient first.

Yes, but suppose acting in the patient’s best interests stirs up even more, uh, positive feelings for them? Harleen had asked one of the instructors during her psychiatric rotation.

You do what’s best for your patient because it’s the right thing to do, the woman had replied, not because it makes you feel all warm and fuzzy. Those things might overlap but your feelings can’t be your motive.

The instructor’s words had helped Harleen clarify her thoughts and feelings, especially during her first clinic experiences. For a while she had seriously considered writing a book to explore the contradictory dynamic between therapist and patient: an intimate, personal relationship that could not be intimate or personal. It was a fascinating topic in its own way, but she hadn’t become a psychiatrist to study other psychiatrists.

Arkham Asylum was her dream job—sometimes nightmarish, but that came with the territory. Her patients were many things besides psychotic—passive-aggressive, obsessive-compulsive, depressed, borderline, narcissistic, psychopathic, self-destructive, and most of all exhausting. Next to these things, countertransference was a non-issue.

In the back of her mind, however, she had wondered if, in some instances, it wasn’t that simple. Could it be that, in certain circumstances, two people who had initially come together as doctor and patient had actually been meant to find their way to each other? Wouldn’t they then realize their lives had been incomplete, lacking something to make them work right? For example, one of them might have turned to crime, even gone crazy—or maybe just seemed crazy to everyone around him.

Wasn’t it possible that Fate could bring that person’s soulmate to him in the form of a doctor? In which case, would the doctor have the wisdom and courage to accept the truth—that they were meant to be together? Or would she knuckle under to convention, hiding behind jargon like “countertransference” because the prospect of professional censure and disapproval made it too hard to do the right thing? If she chose the latter, she wouldn’t just be giving up her chance at happiness—she’d be one more sorry excuse for a human being following that ever-popular path of least resistance to mediocrity.

God, the world was so irrational! Things that were perfectly natural—love, for example—were fraught with complications and obstacles. If you didn’t get arrested for being a victim, some so-called authority was telling you what emotions you weren’t allowed to have—or even that your feelings weren’t real.

As crazy as the patients in Arkham Asylum were, they had nothing on the outside world, where The Golden Rule was Love thy neighbor, and you’d be punished if you did.