The spotlight hits like a summer storm, hot and blinding. Dick Grayson, eight years old, hangs upside down from the trapeze bar twenty feet up. His palms sweat against the rough wood, but he grins anyway. Below, the Haley's Circus big top pulses with New Yorkers, cabbies in suspenders, kids with sticky cotton candy fingers, dames in feather boas waving programs. The air smells like popcorn grease, elephant hay, and that electric buzz from the ringmaster's megaphone.
"Watch this, Ma!" Dick yells, voice cracking with excitement. His mom, Mary Grayson, laughs from the platform across the ring. She's all sequins and red lipstick, hair pinned in victory rolls like those old movie stars. "Higher than your old man, kiddo!"John Grayson, his dad, swings in from the side, his massive arms corded like steel cables. He's got that Haley's tattoo on his bicep, a snarling lion with "NYC's Finest Flyers" scripted under it. The crowd roars as he catches the bar Dick kicks toward him. They fly together, bodies twisting in the air like they own gravity. Dick flips twice, knees tucked, then Dad grabs his wrists. Snap! Dick's launched back to his bar, landing light as a cat.
The tent shakes with cheers. Dick waves, chest puffed. This is their life, Haley's Circus, rolling through the boroughs since Grandpa Haley fled some old-country war. They winter in a Bronx warehouse, summer under these canvas skies in vacant lots from Queens to Coney Island. Dick's world is ropes, nets, and the constant rumble of the city outside: horns blaring, vendors hawking pretzels, the El train rattling like thunder.After the act, they tumble down the ladder into the performers' tent. Ma ruffles Dick's sweaty hair. "Perfect ten, my acrobat ." Dad slings an arm around both, smelling of chalk dust and cheap cigars. "That's my boy. Gonna outfly us someday."Dick beams, grabbing a slice of pizza from the communal table. The troupe's all family: Lena the fire-eater with tattoos up her arms, sharing wild stories of Atlantic City gigs; Marco the strongman, bench-pressing the clown car for laughs; even the roustabouts, roughneck kids like Dick who wrestle elephants and mend tents. Tonight's spot is a cracked lot in Astoria, Queens, neon from a Greek diner flickering through the flaps. Outside, the skyline's a jagged teeth bite against the stars, Empire State glowing like a beacon."Tomorrow we push Brooklyn," Dad says, wiping sauce from his mustache. "Big crowd, word's out about the Graysons." Ma nods, but her eyes flick to the ledger on the crate. Haley's been scraping by; the promoter, a slick weasel named Vincent Moretti, skimps on pay and eyes the books funny. Dick overhears whispers, city inspectors sniffing around, rumors of mob ties shaking down carnivals. But in the tent, it's all laughs.
Dick practices flips on the sawdust floor, dreaming of headlining Madison Square one day.Bed's a hammock strung between poles, swaying gentle. Dick drifts off to the distant whoop of sirens and Ma humming "New York, New York." This is home, flying higher than anyone, family unbreakable.Weeks blur into summer heat. Haley's rolls to Coney Island for the big Fourth of July blowout. The boardwalk's alive: roller coasters screaming, hot dogs sizzling, kids dodging saltwater taffy stands. Their tent's wedged between the Cyclone and a bumper car rink, drawing lines around the block. Dick helps string lights, climbs the center pole to test rigging. "Faster, kid!" Marco booms, tossing him a mallet bigger than his leg.Nights are magic. Dick swings practice runs at dawn, when the beach is empty but for gulls and joggers. Ma teaches him the double somersault, "Feel the air, Dicky , it's your partner." Dad shows knife throws into a cork board, but Dick sticks to aerials. "You're a bird, son. Wings don't need blades."Vincent Moretti slinks around more these days, gold chains glinting, cigar smoke trailing. He's got goons, big guys in cheap suits, muttering about "protection" fees. Dad argues low with him behind the elephant pen. "We're good for it, Vinnie. Crowd's booming." Moretti smirks, eyes on Ma. Dick hides in the hay, fists balled. Hates that guy's laugh, like gravel in a blender.One sticky August eve, they headline under a full house. Fireworks crack outside from some pier show, syncing with the band's brass.
Dick's nine now, birthday last week, cake from Lena shaped like a trapeze. Up on the platform, the rigging creaks funny. Dad frowns, tugs a cable. "Solid," he mutters. Ma kisses Dick's forehead. "Fly true, baby."Spotlights blaze. Music swells. Dick launches first, twisting through three loops, crowd gasping. Dad follows, massive frame defying physics. Ma's the finale, her solo backflip to Dad's catch. They chain it perfect: Dick to Ma, Ma to Dad, building to the triple. Dick soars, wind whistling, heart pounding joy.Then, a snap like gunfire. The cable above Ma frays, whipped by wind or sabotage. She slips mid-air, arms windmilling. Dad lunges, "Mary!!", but the bar wrenches free. They plummet together, twenty feet to the sawdust ring. Time slows. Dick screams from his perch, legs frozen.Thud. Silence swallows the tent. Fireworks pop outside, mocking.Dick hits the ladder, knees buckling, scrambling down. The crowd's a blur of screams and shoving. He pushes through,"Ma! Dad!" to the bodies twisted wrong. Blood pools dark on white sawdust. Ma's eyes stare blank, sequins dull. Dad's hand twitches once.Vincent's goons haul him back as medics swarm. "Kid, stay clear!"
Sirens wail, flashbulbs pop from news hawks. Lena scoops Dick up, sobbing into her shoulder. Marco roars at Moretti, who vanishes into the night.Orphaned. Just like that. Nine years old, world shattered.The wake's in the Bronx warehouse, rain hammering the tin roof like accusations. Troupe huddles on crates, passing whiskey Dick can't touch. Cops poke around, "faulty rigging," they mutter, but Dick knows. Saw Moretti's smirk days before, heard the whispers of skimmed cash and threats. Haley's folds; performers scatter like confetti.
Foster system's a meat grinder. First stop: a cramped Hell's Kitchen group home, bunked with eight other street rats. Matron's iron-fisted, rations porridge. Dick sneaks out nights, scales fire escapes to rooftops. Flips across ledges, chasing that high-wire rush.