When Claire opened her eyes again, she hadn't even realized that she had fallen asleep. But she looked at the clock on the table, which read 6:00. She'd been asleep for about seven hours. She got up and stretched herself, and wondered what to do next. There were still eight hours left to go before she and Sylar were to break into the police files and try to find out more information about the murders.
She looked over at the adjoining door and felt a pang of anxiety. Was he in there? Did she want him to be? She walked through the hallway and knocked, got no answer, then tried the door and found it locked. Frowning, but trying to tell herself that it was a good thing Sylar either wasn't there or not answering, she went to the window with a view of the parking lot and pulled back the curtain. The mustang wasn't there, so he must have still been out.
"Great," she said out loud. "I'm stranded and have no idea where my partner is." She pulled on her jacket and went down to the lobby, and asked the clerk if he knew of a place to eat within walking distance. He recommended a diner about a mile up the road and, thanking him, she followed his advice and went there.
It felt weird to be eating by herself, and Claire couldn't help but feel lonely, sitting in the booth, picking at her burger and fries. She thought of her life a year ago, and if she were here then, it would have been so different. She might have been with her family—her mother prattling on about Mr. Muggles, Lyle stealing fries off of her plate, her father silent but smiling. She might have been with her friends—Jackie talking up a storm about nothing, Denise leaning on her hand and watching the motor-mouth in a mix of awe and amusement. She might have even come here with Zach, him shy and nervous, her teasing him relentlessly but good naturedly.
Claire looked back and realized what a full life she had. Now, she had nothing. Even the one person she had now didn't want to have anything to do with her. The sort of life she dreamed of was "inferior" to him. To him, it was a blessing to be a freak, to be alienated and ostracized, to bear the burden of saving the world and its inhabitants. Accepting her ability, she was beginning to realize, was like accepting the death of a loved one. She dealt with it, but it still hurt. All the time.
She looked down at her plate of half-eaten food, and, unable to just throw it away, asked the waitress for a box and the check when she saw her again. Then she walked back to the hotel, and when she got there, flopped down on the bed again. She had already spent most of the day sleeping, but she didn't care—there was nothing else to do. She turned to face the wall, feeling the tears welling in her eyes. She wiped them away, shut her eyes tightly, and forced herself to sleep.
She was awakened again by the sound of a knock coming from the outside door. Still half-asleep, she rolled off the bed and answered it. It was Sylar.
He stared at her. "What's wrong with you?" he asked.
"What do you mean?"
"You look terrible. Your eyes are red, and your face looks drawn."
Claire wasn't in the mood for concern from her serial killer partner. "Was there something you needed?" she asked, heedless of how her tone might sound.
"No. I just wanted you to know that I already looked at the police files," he said, walking into her room.
Claire was shocked. "You-you already went? I thought we were going to wait until it was late."
Sylar cocked an eyebrow. "Claire, it's midnight. I just came back from there. Granted, I went a little early, but I thought of a great way for me to get what we needed, and seeing as how you didn't really want to have to do it, and I didn't really need you there, I figured I'd spare you the trouble."
Claire was speechless for a moment. Then she looked at his person. "Well, where are they?"
"I didn't need to steal them. I have eidetic memory."
"Huh?"
"Eidetic memory. It means that I only have to read something once, and I can remember it permanently. Some goes with pictures. It's…the gift I got from that waitress." That last sentence seemed to come out with a little more humility.
Claire nodded. "So what did you learn?" she asked, inviting Sylar to sit on the bed, while she sat in the chair by the window.
"Most of it we already knew. The police could find no prints, no DNA, no witnesses who saw anyone entering or exiting the apartments, and no signs of forced entry. The only person—there—who could have done it was the victim herself in each case."
Claire sighed. "This just keeps getting better."
"The autopsy reports were more interesting. They…found stuff, but they couldn't explain how it would have gotten there."
Claire had that sick feeling again from earlier, but she swallowed it back and asked, "what did they find?"
"Well, the first woman, Janet Redelmeyer, the one with a hole cut out of her? They found minute traces of rust in the wound, like it was done with an old, metallic object. But what really puzzled them was the shape of the wound. Usually, something like that would be done with a large knife, perhaps a sword if you were indulgent. But the angle and position of the wound suggests…" Sylar trailed off.
"Suggests?" Claire encouraged.
"Suggests a scissor-like cut. The coroner had speculated on certain types of surgical tools that could have done the job, but those are only used by very specific trades of medicine. And again, Janet Redelmeyer was by herself, and they found no tools like that."
Claire grimaced. "Well, even if she had the tools to do it, I'd think it would be very hard to sit still long enough to cut yourself open like that—pretending, of course, that she killed herself."
Sylar nodded. "And that's the other thing that the report stated. Judging by morbidity and rigidity, Janet Redelmeyer died rather swiftly. If there was someone there actually cutting a neat hole into her, it would have taken much longer to do so than her body suggested."
Claire was already seriously disturbed by it all, but she was still confused as to how someone would be able to do this. "What about the other…Lisa Laricey?"
"Her arms, legs, and her head were separated from her body. Again, her morbidity and rigidity suggest that she died rather quickly, but to actually tear someone limb from limb would require a little more time to do so."
Claire's face contorted again with a thought. "What about the…breaks? Clean? Ragged? Bloody?"
"Clean. Very clean. She was just torn."
Claire's head seemed to go very murky for a moment. Sylar had thrown a lot of information at her, and she felt like she was in overload. But, gradually, three words came to mind, relating to the three cases: paint, scissors, torn.
"Sylar," Claire said slowly. "What can be painted, cut with scissors, and torn?"
"I don't know. A lot of things, I—". Then it came to him. "Paper! In my drawing, the man was holding a piece of paper!"
"That's how he's doing it!" Claire exclaimed. "Somehow, the piece of paper comes to represent the victim, and he does things to the paper to destroy it: tearing it, cutting a hole in it, painting it until it loses its shape!"
"It's almost like astral projection," Sylar said in wonderment. "As if his spirit is committing the murders, while his body remains far away and evidence free."
"And Lori Dunkirk wasn't his last murder," Claire realized. "You drew the future. He's going to kill again."
Sylar smirked. "That's where the reconnaissance you were hoping for comes in," he said. "Now that we know how he's doing it, we need to know who we're looking for."
"And prevent it from happening again."
"Right, Chief."
Claire couldn't help but grin at Sylar's use of the nickname "chief" for her. In a twisted sort of way, she felt that they were becoming a team—each of them contributing to a conclusion. They had really done a great job just then, even though there was still much to do.
Claire stood up from the chair in excitement. "So tomorrow we'll go to that office building and look around—just look around. See if we can point out our man."
Sylar nodded. He wasn't sure if he liked this "perky" Claire who was so gung-ho about solving crimes. But at least they were both getting focused on the case and not so much on each other and what was happening between them…or not happening. Sylar still felt humiliated from the night before, and while he had learned his lesson now and was going to keep a distance, he still didn't want to get into a situation where he was tempted.
But Claire thwarted that. "That was such good news that my appetite's back. Do you want to get something to eat?" she asked him.
Sylar frowned. "It's close to one now. Aren't you tired?"
"I've been sleeping all day actually, and I'm sick of it. Are you…tired?" Claire tried to ask as casually as she could. She had to admit that part of her was hoping that he'd be hungry, or at least able to eat, so that she wouldn't have to be alone anymore. Any company would be good now, even if it was Sylar.
Sylar shrugged casually. "I could eat. I haven't eaten all day, so I probably should at some time."
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"You don't eat much, do you?" Claire asked him. They were at the very same diner she had been to hours before. They had sat down to eat, she ordering a spaghetti dinner, he a small dish of fruit.
"Depends on who you're comparing me to. I think I eat enough for me."
"Did you always have such a small appetite?"
Sylar rolled his eyes. She was trying to "get to know him" again. But he decided to give in for once.
"I probably had a bigger appetite before. But with the telekinesis, I don't need to do as much physical activity as I once did. Hence, less of a need for calories to burn."
Claire smirked. "I wish that was the case for me."
"You look fine from where I am," Sylar blurted out, and regretted it instantly afterwards.
He felt grateful that Claire didn't seem to notice what he had said. Her eyes were turned away, distant.
"What is it?" he asked.
Claire looked up. "I was just thinking about my family. We used to go to places like this together. And now I've lost that."
Sylar felt a bit of sympathy for her, which surprised him. But he tried to cover it with an amused snort of laughter and said, "Oh? Is that all?"
Claire looked shocked for a moment, then seemed to remember who she was talking to and shrugged. "I miss them. Despite my dad's dishonesty, they were wonderful parents…and a brother. I won't ever have that again." Then she turned her attention to Sylar. "Don't you miss your parents?"
Sylar shifted uncomfortably. He didn't like talking about his family. He was reminded of the days when he was Gabriel Gray, a nobody. His parents had made him a nobody. In fact, that was the first thing out of his mouth to Claire before he even realized it.
Her mouth hung open as if he'd used the dirtiest word in the book. "How can you say that about them? They gave you life."
"And it was a dull, empty, meaningless life. My mother never failed to remind me of that."
"What did she do?"
Sylar looked away. "She never abused me, or insulted me. It was the little things. Like, whenever she'd visit the shop I worked in, she'd always say, 'This place is pathetic. You can do so much better' or, 'You're too smart to do something so worthless. Fixing watches will never make you special.'"
"But were you happy fixing watches?" Claire asked.
Sylar glowered. "What does it matter now?" he asked. "I'm never going to do it again."
"But were you?" she pressed.
"I wouldn't be happy doing it now. Not with all I've done and seen. But then…I guess I felt like I was good at it. And it gave me a certain measure of satisfaction when I was able to find the problem and fix it. The only thing that made me miserable was hearing my mother tell me that what I did was worthless. I went into the family business, after my father," Sylar said, now staring off in the distance. "My mother thought my father was a zero, but she always thought I could be special. It was her constant hope that I would live up to those dreams she had for me."
"So that's why you've done what you've done. You're trying to live up to your mother's dream for you," Claire stated.
Her analysis brought Sylar back to reality. He was suddenly angry. "Who do you think you are—a goddamn psychologist?" he practically shouted, shooting up from his seat. "I didn't ask for your evaluation. I don't need it! My family is dead and the person I was is dead and this here," he exclaimed, hitting his chest, "is all that's left. Accept it!" With that, he got up and walked out of the diner, leaving several shocked and upset patrons, including Claire.
But she recovered in enough time to go after him. Flinging a twenty dollar bill on the table, she flew out of the diner behind him.
"Sylar! Sylar wait!" she called. She could barely see his outline in the night, and she ran after him as fast as she could. She reached out her arm and grabbed the end of his sleeve and held on. He could do his worst, she decided, but she wasn't going to let go.
But he did stop, and turn around to face her. "Why won't you leave me alone?" he snapped.
Claire's eyes burned, but she was determined to hold back tears. "I'm sorry that I…upset you. But I'm trying to figure you out. I haven't ever met anyone like you, and what you've done…disturbs me. I'm just trying to make sense of it."
Sylar laughed bitterly. "When are you going to realize that you can't 'figure everything out'? People do terrible things, Claire. I'm not the first or last to fall into that category. It's human nature. You keep hoping that all of a sudden I'll feel guilty and repentant for what I've done, and when that doesn't happen you cry like a little girl. I'll be honest with you—I may never feel sorry for the crimes I've committed. You're just going to have to deal with that." With that, he turned and stalked back to the hotel.
Claire stood there in the dark, for a long time, her mind feeling empty and full at the same time. Then, slowly, she followed the path Sylar had taken.
SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS
Sylar tossed that night. He knew he was feeling guilty, but he couldn't understand why. Why should he care if Claire was hurt by the things he had said? She deserved to hear it. She pushed too much, expected too much. Wasn't it enough that he broke into the police department and got her that information? Why couldn't she just focus on the case instead of trying to get to know him?
At seven, he was out of bed and getting dressed. They were going to the office building, so he decided to wear something that looked a little more…professional. A white button down shirt and black slacks. He didn't have a tie or a suit jacket, so that would have to be enough. He shaved and slicked back his hair, then looked at himself in the mirror. He wondered if he looked like a young professional.
Then he wondered if he should go to see her through the hallway, or the outside door. After thinking it over for a few moments, he decided on the hallway. He was about to knock on the door to Claire's room when the door turned for itself, and there she was, attired in navy blue pinstripe slacks and a lighter blue button down shirt. Her hair was in a side ponytail.
"I was just about to see if you were ready. From the looks of it, you are," she said, unsmiling. She turned and walked back into her room, then walked out the front door.
Curious, and a little taken aback, Sylar followed.
Claire did the driving, and when they arrived at the building, she found the garage and paid for all day parking. She walked into the building with a confidence that Sylar hadn't seen before, even from her. He simply followed.
He was a little behind her, and by the time he got off the elevator he had seemed to have lost her. He turned around a corner, feeling anxiety get to him a little, and found with a small measure of relief that she was sitting on a bench against the wall, legs crossed and with a determined look on her face. He walked over to her and sat down.
She seemed to be looking for their "perp," but not very well, Sylar had to admit. She kept noticing the well-dressed, handsome, built businessmen, passing by in a flurry. He felt a bit of jealousy, but told himself that her flaw was her superficiality, not anything to do with him.
Sylar leaned over and whispered to her, "You're looking at the wrong guys. We're not looking for someone you'd notice; we're looking for someone you wouldn't."
At first Sylar assumed she was ignoring him, but then he heard her whisper, "You're right. Force of habit."
They sat there for about fifteen minutes, people coming and going in regular intervals, but no one fitting their profile. At last Claire turned her head to one side and saw a dark, baggy uniform, similar to the clothes the man in the picture was wearing. Her eyes grew wide and she was about to nudge Sylar, but then realized that the person she was seeing was a woman—a janitor. Her heart raced and she had an idea.
She poked him with her elbow. "Hey, let's go to the bathroom."
Sylar raised an eyebrow. Was this her way of telling him she wanted to be alone with him? This wasn't really the time. "Together?" he asked.
Claire nodded fervently. "I think I have an idea of who we might be looking for. Who works in a multi-office building, wears ugly, formless clothes, and is inconspicuous?"
Sylar smiled in recognition. "Janitors."
"Yes, and I'm willing to bet we might be able to find them in the lavatory and wastebasket areas. Come on," she said, getting up.
They ended up searching each and every lavatory on every floor, every area for refuse, and still nothing. They were about to give up when at last they reached the lobby area and saw one janitor, cleaning out the trash bin by the elevator.
Sylar saw him first, as he was in front, and as soon as he did he grabbed Claire and flung her behind him. She was about to protest when he put his finger to his lips and pointed discreetly to the man across the way.
"Damn!" Claire whispered. "I'm glad we took the stairs down."
"As am I," Sylar agreed. He reached into the pocket of his pants and pulled out his drawing. Using his telescopic vision, he focused in on the figure across the way and magnified him, studying him carefully.
"That's him," Sylar whispered definitively.
"How do you know?"
"The broad, ugly brow and nose you were describing. He's got them."
Claire looked around Sylar's arm at the man. Her vision wasn't as good as Sylar's, so she had to take his word for it, but knowing she was just a few yards from the killer made her shudder. She backed away from the wall and into the stairwell.
Sylar walked after her. "We need to follow him. Find out where he lives."
Claire nodded. "It's only the morning, though. We're going to be here for a while."
"Probably. But there's no other way. And somehow, we need to stay close to him without him knowing we're there."
"So…we hide in the stairwell?"
Sylar looked at her in that smug, dangerous way that unnerved her. "It's got a good view, it's secluded, and little-used. It's the best place for us to be together."
Claire felt ill. Did he have to say "together?" But, they didn't really speak too much after that. She sat on the stairs while he stared out of the window. The hours actually passed pretty quickly, and just two seconds after she had looked at her watch she heard him say, "He's moving! We gotta go!"
Claire leapt to her feet and looked out of the window with Sylar. The man, still in his work clothes, was exiting the building with a bag over his arm. They burst through the door, and, now out on the lobby floor, tried to hurry out of there as fast as they could while not appearing suspicious. They couldn't afford to lose him now.
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Today was his half day, and while most would be thrilled, he wasn't. He'd have to find ways of occupying his time. Maybe he'd call his mother. She was living in a nursing home in Dardanelles, their home town. She was beginning to lose her wits. But she always asked him now, "are you staying away from those dirty little girls?"
He was forty eight years old now. He'd been "staying away" for thirty years. But even in her feeble-minded way, his mother served to help him remember why he had done the things he'd done. So he'd smile and say, "Yes, of course, mama. They don't fool me at all."
It was his mother that kept him from college.
Not being able to bear the thought of her only child leaving her for school, plus complaining that she didn't have the money to send him, his mother begged, pleaded, threatened him to stay with her.
"How will I do without my baby?" she asked him. "If you love your mama, you'll stay."
And so, after graduation, still under the oppressive weight of all the mourning for Jenny Winters, he stayed in town, got a full time job at the hardware store, lived with her. Then finally, when she had a stroke, there was no one there to care for her and he had to put her in the nursing home. Even with most of her strength and sense gone, she was still telling him, "Stay away from those girls! They may be pretty, they may be smart, but they're evil! They all deserve to be punished!"
To fulfill his mother's wish, he moved to the city and did exactly what she said—he punished. But he only did it when necessary, when the girl was asking for it or he just couldn't help himself. Taking the job as a janitor, he was in a good, inconspicuous place, yet a good place to meet women and earn their trust.
Lisa Laricey had been trusting, and even pretended to be kind. She was a paralegal, and used to regal him with stories of her cases when she saw him and he asked how her day was. He had long been pondering writing her name down, but he decided not to for a while. That was, until the day that he heard her talking to some colleagues and she mentioned she liked to talk to the "poor man who does the cleaning" that he decided to do some repairs.
He had been too tired that day to think of something creative, so he just tore the paper with her name on it.
The police were really up in arms now—the second person who was murdered in a mysterious way and who had worked in that building. But they never suspected him. They asked the people she worked with—the ones in suits who mattered. But not him. So he felt very free, but he also knew he had to be cautious. He had been proud that he had held off so long before Lori, but he couldn't help it that time. He could see right through her fake cheerfulness and into her soul.
That was the gift his mother had given him. She too, could see through all the fake kindness the other women had showed her when his father died. She just held her head high and knew what sort of lying sluts they all were. And she made sure her son knew too.
Yes, he decided. He'd call his mother this afternoon. It would make him feel better after having to hear about Lori Dunkirk the entire week.
He was almost to his apartment, which was only a few blocks away from work so he didn't have to drive. A few times he felt like he was being watched. He'd look back and see nothing but blank-faced pedestrians behind him. When he got to the building, however, he was certain that he heard a suspicious sound and looked back towards the way he came, only seeing, in the shadows, a man embracing a woman passionately in the alleyway. Grunting in disgust, he walked into his home. Horny idiot, he thought of the man who had been lured in by the harlot he was holding. He'd be done in so fast he wouldn't know what hit him.
SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS
Sylar released Claire from his embrace and looked down at her, then back onto the street where the building was. "We know where he lives now. Good." He walked back onto the street.
Claire slowly emerged from behind him. She had been shocked when Sylar had done that, but she soon realized why he had. They had been following their suspect for several blocks, trying to keep a steady pace but not follow too close to alert him he was being followed. They were nearly home free when the man looked back in their direction and Sylar had practically leapt upon her, wrapping his arms around her and burying his head in her neck. She had given a slight yelp, but heard him whisper. "Just stay this way for a few minutes." They did, and then when they thought it was safe, let go of one another.
Her head feeling a bit cloudy, Claire followed Sylar back up the street to where their car was parked. They got back to the car, and without speaking, drove back to the hotel.
"Now that we know where he's staying, we can keep tabs on him. But we need to be able to do it stealthily and consistently. How?" Sylar thought aloud, pacing the floor of his room.
Claire was sitting on his bed, staring into space. She tried to focus on the case, but she was still thinking of the embrace. Sylar had smelled…nice. It seemed to be a mix of his own natural scent and the soap he used, which had been delicious. He had held her tightly, the way he had when they had made love the first time. She knew that if she had turned her face just a few inches up in his direction, they might have kissed.
"Claire?" The sound of Sylar's voice broke the daydream.
She looked up, startled. "What?"
"I was saying that we need to bait him. You be the bait, and I set up camp nearby and watch his every move. The only problem is that I need to somehow move quickly into that apartment building, but I don't know how."
Claire grinned. "I know how." Ignoring Sylar's questioning look, she went to the hotel phone, and dialed. After a few seconds, he heard her say, "Mr. Nakamura, please. Tell him this is Claire Bennet."
Now that they knew his work schedule, they waited until he was at the office to check out of the hotel and into the new apartment the next day. Claire's call turned out to be a lucky charm. Mr. Nakamura used his connections to rent an apartment in the building to his two operatives.
The plan was perfect. Sylar and Claire went over it again and again, making sure they knew exactly when and where to execute each move.
The night before their plan went into motion, Claire was still worried. "Are you sure you can fool him?"
Sylar looked a little hurt by her insinuation. "Of course. If Ah could do a Texas accent and fool yo' mama," he said, with a Southern drawl, "I'm sure I can to-tally do a California accent," he said, this time with "surfer influences."
Sylar didn't bother to ask if Claire could pull off her side of the job. She was beautiful, and disarmingly confident. This was going to work.
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He was coming home from yet another day of work, but this time he felt energized. The next time he went out, he decided, he would get the name of a cheeky little brunette who worked at the grocery store that he'd seen before, and she'd given him her name in that high-pitched, "valley girl" voice that he'd found so annoying. Well, he knew what to do. He'd make sure that voice was put to rest.
As he was walking in, he noticed a tall man with dark hair, struggling with a bunch of boxes. He was out of breath, and soon dropped one, cursing quietly to himself. Feeling sorry for the stranger, he walked over.
"Hi there, friend, you look like you could use some help," he told the younger man.
The man looked up, eyes as dark as his hair. "Oh yeah man, that would be awesome, thank you." He talked like he had spent a good part of his life on the beach. Indeed, in his bright green shirt and neon orange cap, he wore more bright colors than was usual for this part of the country.
So he took some of the boxes from the stranger, and asked where he was moving in. Turns out, the new guy was going to be just across the hall from him.
"Really? I will be? Oh that's good, man. Now I don't feel like I'm putting you out too much," the stranger said.
"Oh, it's no trouble at all," he smiled. There were only a few boxes and a few pieces of furniture, and so between the two of them it was done fairly quickly and easily.
The stranger had a cooler, and once they had moved the small futon into the living room of the empty apartment, he was invited to sit down and have a beer with him, which he accepted.
The stranger handed him a cold can and then held out his hand. "I'm Noah," he said with a smile.
He took his new neighbor's hand and shook it. "I'm Paul," he replied.
Paul looked around the apartment. "I hope you don't mind me saying this, Noah, but you don't really have enough to fill this place up."
Noah sighed deeply, and Paul had a feeling there was a story behind this, but he didn't want to pry. Surprisingly, however, Noah didn't seem to mind telling it.
He threw back some of his beer and leaned against the couch. "Oh man, I know it. I had more stuff, but I just broke up with my girl and now she's got most of it. I'm just trying to get my life back together, you know?"
Paul nodded. He felt very sympathetic, even though he didn't know this man.
Noah continued, again much to his surprise. "Four years, man. I gave her four years of my life, and then she ups and dumps me because I don't make enough money. Man, I loved her too, you know? You think that would be enough, but it ain't, man. It just ain't for women."
Paul nodded, staring. He was feeling a kinship to Noah. Granted, the younger man would definitely not know what it was like to be ugly and unloved, but he'd had his heart broken all the same.
Noah looked at him closely, then laughed. "Aw man, I'm sorry. I shouldn't be telling you all this mess. You were just trying to do the neighborly thing, and then I start telling you my life story."
"Oh no, no, that's fine! It really is!" Paul tried to convince him. "I just…I know how you're feeling."
"Oh, well it happens, I know, man. Doesn't hurt any less though. And…" Noah began, getting off of the sofa to throw away his now-empty can. "To make it worse, I haven't found a job yet, and I know I'm going to run out of money soon. Man, you never think things like this will happen to you."
Paul's heart went out to Noah. He hadn't known him long, but he knew he had to do something to help. This was all the fault of that selfish, greedy bitch that had dumped him. If only he could ask her name! But that wouldn't be appropriate right now. But…he did know one way he could help.
"Well, maybe I can help you with that. I work in a big office building. I'm a janitor," Paul said, with a certain measure of humility, but Noah didn't seem to notice. "If you want, I could take you there tomorrow. There's lots of companies there—what do you do?"
"Really man? Well, I have a bachelor's in computing, and I've done tech support in my last job. You think there's anything like that there?"
"I'm sure there is," Paul said with a smile.
Noah had an excited, almost childlike look on his face. "Paul, man, you're a lifesaver! I'm so glad I moved in here!"
"Me too," Paul said, finally feeling like he finally had a friend. "Believe me."
