"Carter," cried Annie, trying to put upon her best stern and serious demeanor, "where is it you think you are running off to in such a hurry?"

Carter stopped his sprint, and spun around to face his mother, "I'm going to the entertainment room. I borrowed a Farscape DVD from Tommie and was gonna watch it . . . "

"And your algebra homework?" asked Annie.

"After?" asked Carter, an impish smile upon his face.

"Before," stated Annie, trying not to laugh, "get it done, and you can watch the DVD. I will be in there to check on you, right after I check in . . . "

"Alright mom," said Carter, scooting his foot along the floor and feigning resignation. Annie knew better. She knew her son would have done his homework first anyway, but he was hitting those formidable teenage years, and was at the point where he liked to push and question everything. Annie remembered those days well, because most days it felt like she was still in them.

Annie watched as Carter ran down the hall, then took her sweater off and headed down the hallway in a different direction. She walked slowly, absorbing the atmosphere. Every time she walked down the hall of the home, she closed her eyes and imagined that the house was hers. To her it was amazing that people had the money to own such large, spacious, and wonderful homes. Annie's parents had barely been able to scrape together enough to survive, and Annie's had worked two jobs just to take care of herself and Carter and save enough to put herself through nursing school. Heck, they could fit her last three apartments into this house.

Of course, as things go, money wasn't everything. This job was proof. Sometimes, life gets away from you, no matter how big your corporations are, or how much power and influence you wield.

Suddenly, someone burst from the door to Annie's left, and nearly ran her over. Annie had to grab the girl by the shoulders to keep her from falling upon her face. The girl looked a little frazzled. She was young, but not very attractive. Her nose was far too big for her face, and she was packing a few extra pounds. Annie surmised this must be the new nurse the agency had sent for the days when Annie was off. She believed her name was Shanna or something . . .

"Oh," said the girl, her eyes wide, "you scared the devil out of me. Hi, you must be Annie. I am Shandra."

Annie looked the girl up and down. She knew people pretty well. This wouldn't last very long, she had a strong feeling about that. Her feelings were rarely wrong.

"How is our patient today?" asked Annie, continuing her descent down the hall. The girl padded steadily behind her.

"Fine, I guess," said Shandra, shrugging, "I made sure he ate, did some physical therapy, and placed him by the window, just like I was told."

Suddenly, she became silent. Annie knew what was coming next. It always happened.

"So," said Shandra, confirming Annie's suspicions, "what is his story anyway?"

Annie pushed opened the double doors, and walked into the final room of the hall. It was a very grand and spectacular room, with a huge vaulted ceiling. The north and south walls were a vast library, packed to the ceiling with biographies of famous people, archery books, and tomes of classic literature, many valuable first editions. The wood floor was covered with a fine, lavish Persian Rug, weaved in rich greens and reds. The most grand spectacle of the room though was the west wall-four giant glass windows which looked out upon a tree-covered cliff and an amazing view of a sandy stretch of beach and the Pacific Ocean. Annie had never seen such a more serene and tranquil setting.

It was there, in front of those huge windows that their patient sat. His form was slumped against the wheelchair, like that of a rag doll. His eyes glazed as they stared out at the ocean crashing against the beach below.

"Hello, Oliver," said Annie, almost in a whisper, as she bent over and put her hand upon his. He didn't look up. He didn't move. He never did. After several minutes she turned back to Shandra.

"You know who he is, don't you?" asked Annie.

"Of course," said Shandra, smiling, "That is Oliver Queen. Multi-millionaire. Socialite. Philanthropist. Former super-hero. Everybody knows who Mr. Queen is, but how did he end up like this?"

Annie shrugged, picking up a towel and wiping dust from a nearby desk. "He was at some big party in Los Angeles. Many of his friends, and his daughter were there. It was attacked by some gang. Oliver helped stop it, but people were hurt and killed. Also, I guess, a girl came looking to kill Oliver for some past fight between him and her father. When it was all over the girl was dead. So was Oliver's unborn grandchild, which his daughter had been pregnant with . . . "

"Oh, how horrible," said Shandra, shaking her head.

"Yes," said Annie, "Oliver didn't take it well. He blamed himself for both the girl's death, and his grandchild's. He began to withdraw quickly. He disappeared, only to be found several weeks later in a hospital in Portland. He no longer talked or moved or ate. He was just there. His family and friends brought him here, to his Oregon coast home, where he has been ever since. The doctor's say it is a severe form of self-induced post-traumatic stress. Oliver just couldn't deal with his reality of loss anymore."

"His daughter survived?" asked Shandra, absorbing the tale being presented to her.

"Yes," replied Annie. "The girl bent on revenge fired an arrow into her belly. His daughter barely survived, but she is fine now. She comes to visit him quite often, when she isn't attending classes at Gotham University."

"Does he get a lot of guests?" asked Shandra.

"Oh yes," said Annie, smiling. "Oliver has a lot of people who care a great deal about him. His friends Jonathan Silvercloud and Henry Pym are here every couple of weeks, as is his daughter. His ex-wife, Colleen, is here frequently and always calling to check up on his condition. Carol Danvers, you know, the big anti-cancer activist in Los Angeles, always calls frequently. Others come too, people from the government, old superheroes and even a few villains. I even saw Captain America in here once. Oliver is a very special man."

"Apparently," replied Shandra, shrugging, "Well, this is much more interesting then the last job I had . . . "

As Shandra walked away, evidently to scoop up her things and go home, Annie rolled her eyes. She had a pretty good feel for people, and she didn't like Shandra one bit. There was something off kilter about her, something not quite right. Annie wasn't sure what yet, but she determined to keep an eye upon her.

Annie waited with Oliver for several more minutes, until she heard the front door open and close, indicating Shandra had left the building, then she walked up to Oliver. She straightened him in his chair, turning it slightly to increase his picturesque view of the water's below, then left the room to go check the rest of the house, to make sure all the valuables were still intact.

Carter burst into the "throne room", as he was fond of calling it. He looked through the room, but his mother was not present. He did notice, though, that Mr. Queen was positioned in his wheelchair at the big window.

When Carter had first come with his mother to the house, he had found the whole thing very depressing and morbid. He had purposely avoided contact with the comatose house dweller. He was very familiar with the exploits of Oliver Queen - most kids were. In his other masked persona, as the Green Arrow, he had been a member of the Avengers League. Carter had pretended, in his younger days, to be him, firing his net and gas arrows at the members of the Legion of Doom. He had read about his exploits in comic books. Now here he was, the living legend, and carter spent plenty of hours every week at his house. Only the legend wasn't so legendary anymore - now he was just a slack-jawed vegetable with sad, glaring eyes.

Carter went to the bookshelf and rumbled through the copies of biographies and autobiographies. Once, just out of boredom, he had picked up a tome detailing the life of Julius Caesar and began reading it to Oliver. His mother was so pleased when she came upon the scene, she encouraged him to continue doing so. She said it was good for both him and Oliver.

Carter thumbed through the books, finally settling his interests upon a biography of Alexander the Great. He grabbed the book and walked towards the sullen form of Mr. Queen. He didn't find the whole thing morbid anymore - just sad. It was tragic the way life had turned out.

Carter sat down beside the wheelchair and flipped opened to the first page. Before he began reading he looked up and Oliver's face. There were no emotions he just looked hollow and empty. Suddenly, Carter had the strange urge to touch Oliver. That had never happened before. He had never felt compelled to do anything of the such, usually he would simply sit there and read for awhile. Today was different though. Today was special.

Carter looked at Oliver, then thought for a second what his mother would think. He already knew what she would say - "Carter, leave Mr. Queen alone and go do some more homework." Carter rolled his eyes and quickly put his hand upon Oliver's shriveled skin. Suddenly Oliver let out a huge gasp of air, his head shooting up from its slumped position. It scared Carter, and he tried to pull his hand away. He found he couldn't. He was stuck.

Then the whole world went black.

"Mom!" bellowed Carter, hoping maybe the whole thing was just some strange illusion. he pinched himself on the arm, thinking maybe it was a dream. Neither seemed to have any effect. He seemed to really be there.

Frustrated, Carter sat down, to consider his options. He was suddenly in the middle of a dessert. He had no food, no water, no shelter from the blistering sun. That didn't appear to be a very good outlook.

Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, Carter caught a flash of movement. It was far off, several dunes to his left. He scanned the form. It was moving. Not having any options, Carter decided to move towards it, hoping it was a human who could provide him with water or food or shelter or anything which could help him survive, or better yet, explain to him how the heck he got here.

As Carter came closer, details became clearer of the form moving before him. It was indeed a human, covered in swatches of desert clothing, all different shades of green. The details were cloaked in clothing, but judging by the hands, which were the only exposed flesh, it was a Caucasian. The person moved slowly through the sand, lugging a large chest by chains through the desert sand. The old chest looked very heavy.

Carter screamed at the person, over and over again, as he came closer and closer. There seemed to be no response. Perhaps the person was deaf, he wondered. For a brief moment, Carter entertained the idea that this person was dangerous, and perhaps he shouldn't go near him. He quickly pushed such thoughts away - he was in the middle of the desert, and this was the only form of help he could see. His choices were none.

Finally, he came upon the walking person. Figuring that all his screaming had done little to attract attention, he simply placed himself directly in the path of the desert walker. Beneath the man's cowl, he saw a scraggly yellow beard. This was a man.

With Carter in his path, the man finally came to a halt. The man just stood there for a moment, rigid. Finally, he pulled his cowl from over his face. Carter stared in shock. He recognized the sad eyes. It was Oliver Queen.

"What are you doing here child?" asked Oliver, staring at the boy.

"I . . . I . . . " responded Carter, confused by the entire situation, "I am not sure Mr. Queen. One moment I was sitting in your 'throne room', about to read you a book on Julius Caesar, the next I am in this desert, and you are the only thing for miles. Where are we? How did we get here?"

Oliver smiled. The facial expression looked very odd upon him, Carter thought, sort of sarcastic and ironic and still sad, not a true jovial expression.

"Well, child," said Oliver, "we are 'in' my head. My brain. My mind, I do believe. I think I know how I got here. How did you get here?"

Carter began to explain, about the house, his mother, Oliver's condition, everything he knew about the situation. He also noticed they had begun to move again, walking down the sandy dunes.

"Are you a mutant, child?" asked Oliver, absorbing everything Carter told him.

"Not that I am aware of!" said Carter, taken back. He had seen pictures of humans who exhibited strange powers. They were called mutants, something about altered genetics. As far as he knew, he was just an ordinary kid. He didn't have horns or blue fur or shot lasers from his eyes or anything crazy like that.

Oliver shrugged. "Well, something or someone plopped you into my cranium kid. Maybe you better try and get out . . . "

Carter looked at Oliver incredulously. "First of all, I don't know how I even got in here, much less how I get out. Second, where is here. Why are we in this desert? Third, why aren't you trying to get out? You are the slack-jawed vegetable last time I checked . . . "

Oliver laughed, this time it seemed much more sincere and natural. If it were not for the strange situation, Carter might have found it infectious and laughed with him.

"Thanks kid," said Oliver. "I needed that. Been a long time since I have had anything to laugh at. 'Slack-jawed vegetable' aye? That is quite a picture. I've had a while to think about this whole set-up. Kind of strange, being inside your own mind, and 'thinking' about stuff, you know?

"I think the whole desert represents an inhospitable environment. You don't get much more hostile than this . . . "

"Your brain is a hostile environment?" asked carter, confused.

"Yeah, well," said Oliver, shrugging. "I didn't take losing my grand baby very well, did I?"

"That shooting that happened in California at that big party?" asked Carter.

"Yeah that," said Oliver. "It was my fault."

"How was it your fault?" replied Carter.

"That girl," said Oliver, "that came after me, she had a vendetta against me, I killed her daddy, a criminal by the name of Merlyn, along time ago. She came looking for me, and her arrow hit my daughter instead. Then I shot her, and killed her."

"You didn't make that girl come after you. She made the choice to be angry and seek vengeance . . . "

"Yeah," said Oliver. "But it was my life that set this whole thing up. I chose to be a 'crime-fighting hero'. I put my child, and her child, in danger. I put the blood on my hands."

Carter shrugged. "Maybe I am just a kid, but I don't get it. I have read about you. You have saved a lot of lives in your time. You have done a lot of good, both as a hero and as a businessman.

"I can understand being sad about the baby, but what about the rest of the people in your life. Your daughter is still here, and doesn't she still need you . . . "

"I'm not sure I can face her again," said Oliver.

"Well," said Carter, a tinge of anger in his voice, "that is very cowardly of you. I never knew my dad. He was gone before I was ever born. But I know this, I am sure it is better to have a dad, then not have one. It is obvious you love her very much, and I am sure she knows that. I have seen her cry when she comes and visits you. You need to pull your head out of your ass and come join us in the real world . . . "

"Maybe I will yet, kid," said Oliver, smiling. "You know, you are pretty damn smart for your age. Your mama must have taught you real well . . . "

Suddenly, with a start, Carter looked up. He was in the 'throne room' his mother was standing above him, a concerned look upon her face.

"What were you doing?" she asked, "I have been looking for you all over the house. It is time to eat, and here I found you, asleep, at the side of Mr. Queen. Are you alright? Didn't you hear me calling you?"

"Sorry mom," said Carter, thinking quickly. "I guess I was reading to Mr. Queen, and just fell asleep. But I am really hungry, so I am going to eat, okay?"

Carter sprung up. First he quickly grabbed his stunned mother, threw his arms around her in a big hug, kissed her cheek, then ran from the room to the kitchen.

Annie stood there for a second, shocked. Her teenage son rarely hugged her, and never kissed her. Finally, recovering from her stupor, she brought herself to Oliver, looking him over to make sure he was fine. As she grabbed his wheelchair arms, she looked at his face. For a moment, she could have sworn that the edges of his lips were curled in a smile.