School was over for him. Even if he could have gone back, he wouldn’t have wanted to. What was he going to do, study to become an astronaut? The worst part was he couldn’t pour urine into the lockers of the boys who hurt him.

The best thing was it gave him more time to think about what he was going to do to them. Ever since then, he’s struggled to make friends. Now it’s looking like it might be the same with Cooper. Before the beating he wasn’t popular, but there were a couple of equally unpopular kids who would at least speak to him on occasion. If his mother were here, then at least there’d be somebody to comfort him, to calm him, to care that he’s upset. At least that’s the fantasy. His mother would do no such thing. She used to, a long time ago, until he started waiting outside his school and following those kids home who had hurt him. That’s when things got bad. It wasn’t long after this that his first mother sent him out here to the Grove and stopped being his mother.

It’s not fair, but things never are. Collecting Cooper is supposed to be the most exciting thing he has ever done, and these thoughts, along with Cooper’s actions, are bringing him down. There has to be a way to make Cooper like him. Cooper likes other people, which means it’s possible. He should go downstairs and ask Cooper who else has ever shown him such a respect as to want to own him for a collection! Who else thinks so much of Cooper’s work? Nobody!

He tries to tell himself Cooper just needs time to adjust, and remembers what it was like for himself when he was first brought out here, what it was like being in a foreign world, only for him it was worse, for him he was locked out here with dozens of other patients, some of them crazy, some of them mean, some of them crazy-mean, all of them set free three years ago when Grover Hills was shut down. He reminds himself he knew Cooper’s anger was always going to be a possibility.

Tomorrow his gift will go a long way to fixing any problems between them. For now, he should rest for the remainder of the day, and then sleep on it. Like his mother—not his real mother who abandoned him, but his second mother who looked after him and the others who were different—used to say, “A problem with rest becomes a solution most best.” He’s not so sure if his mother was right on that one.

He paces his bedroom, counting the footsteps, finding comfort in the familiar. He used to pace this room a lot as he grew from teenager to man. Sometimes he’d have the room to himself, other times he’d have to share it and there would be less room for his footsteps. The higher the number, the calmer he becomes. He prefers even numbers over the odd, and makes sure he always finishes his steps on a multiple of ten, having to either shorten or lengthen his stride to make it happen. He pushes everything from his mind until he reaches a thousand. A thousand is a good number, twice as good as five hundred, half as good as two thousand. A good, solid number, a multiple of ten and also a hundred, which itself is a multiple of ten. He sits down. He thinks about second impressions. He thinks about what he can do to make Cooper happy, and decides that giving the serial killer some books to read might help. It’s a great idea.

As quickly as the excitement comes, it disappears, replaced by a feeling of utter uselessness, a feeling he has been intimate with his entire adult life. Giving Cooper reading material is an idea to be proud of, but what he isn’t proud of is the fact it took so long for the idea to come. He should have known all along a man like Cooper needs to keep his mind active, stimulated, otherwise he’ll become stagnant. Collector’s items aren’t meant to be boring.

“Cooper will be so happy,” he says, knowing once he shares the idea the two of them will start to bond. For the last three years he’s been collecting books about serial killers. He loves reading them. They fascinate him. He picks up a handful of books from his bedroom and carries them to the basement. Cooper watches him coming down the stairs, his face in the small window, motionless. He looks gray, hollow, like a ghost who’s moved on to somewhere else.

“I brought you something to read,” Adrian says, holding up the books.

“Thank you. I appreciate that,” Cooper says and Adrian is pleased at his politeness. “Are you going to leave the lamp for me?”

“It’s the only one I have,” Adrian says, “and I’ll need it for when it gets dark.”

“Then how am I going to read?”

Adrian straightens up the coffee table and sits the books on them, embarrassed because he doesn’t have an answer. Parts of the sandwich have stuck to the surfaces it hit, and the bread has gone hard. He’ll clean it up tomorrow.

“Are you mad at me?” Adrian asks, not looking up. “Don’t you feel special?”

“I feel trapped,” Cooper answers. “You seem like an intelligent guy, you must be to have accomplished all this by yourself. You must have plenty of friends you can talk to, why do you need to keep me here?”

“I don’t have any friends,” Adrian answers, fiddling with the books so all the spines are perfectly aligned. “I used to, but they all left.”

“Come now, that can’t be true,” Cooper says. “A guy like you, you must have lots of friends.”

“Are you mocking me?” he asks, looking up.

“I don’t mock.”

“You should feel special,” Adrian says. “I mean, you’re one of most special people in this city at the moment. You’re a serial killer, and if that isn’t special, I don’t know what is.”

“Why do you think I’m a serial killer? What have I done to make you think that?”

“For one, you have a thumb in a jar. Serial killers collect things like that from their victims.”

Cooper smiles. “You think I cut the thumb off somebody I killed?”

Adrian likes seeing the smile, and he smiles too. “Didn’t you?”

Cooper nods, the smile still there. “Okay,” he says. “No more lies. You got me. Of course I cut it off one of my victims.”

“Why did you ask me before if I had sold it to you?”

“I’m not sure. I woke up feeling groggy and confused. Did you shoot me with a Taser?”

“Yes.”

“And then held something over my face. What was that?”

Adrian doesn’t know. It’s stuff he picked up last week when he got the Taser. He shrugs. “Something that makes people sleep,” he says. “Who did you cut the thumb off?”

“A man I killed.”

“You kill men? I thought you only killed women.”

“Sometimes both,” Cooper says.

“Why did you kill him?”

“Because I wanted to. How did you figure out I was a serial killer, Adrian? Lay it out for me. The police don’t know I’m one, so you must be smarter than the police.”

Adrian smiles. It’s been a long time since he’s had any emotional warmth well up inside of him, and it feels great. This is exactly why he wanted to have Cooper so badly. They will become best friends. Cooper can tell him how it feels to be a serial killer, and Cooper can tell him about all the other killers he’s known. He’s glad he rewound the tape earlier and is recording over their previous conversation. He hopes it comes through clearly—he has his shirt hanging over the radio so Cooper can’t see it.

“I started watching you because I remembered you were writing a book,” he says. “You used to come out here years ago and ask us questions, but you never had any questions for me.”

“Here? Where is here? One of the abandoned institutions?”

“Grover Hills,” Adrian says, “and it’s not abandoned because we’re here. And it’s not an institution, it’s a home. You were writing a book about us, and I’ve looked for it but haven’t found a copy anywhere.”

“It’s not finished,” Cooper says.

“I’d like to read it.”

“Sure, I’d like that too. I’m interested in what you have to say on it. How can I give you a copy, Adrian? It’s on my computer. We could go to my house and I could show it to you.”