It's odd, being in a nut house that isn't Arkham. In a lot of ways it's sort of nice, you know? I mean, for one thing, Arkham was always damp. Had that Castle of Frankenstein feeling, ya know? Stone walls, cold floors, torture chamber in the basement
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A copy of "Where the Sidewalk Ends" by Shel Silverstein.
Inside the front cover, there's a small note to her.
You hit a dead end, you go back to the beginning and start over. See you there.
The only signature is a little lightning bolt over a circle.
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