I’m happy, but not go-lucky. I have no idea why Victorian houses are haunted. It’s an unreal thing that actually exists, like reality TV. Whenever I dance, it’s a square dance. It’s not a swagger, it’s a righteous gambol. Once, I sought redemption in the New Math, but it just didn’t add up. Maybe that’s why I don’t trust the trustees. Anyway, like a baseball bat on a soccer field, redemption would be wasted on me—wasted as a heart attack on death row. Janine says, it’s all a part of the inhuman condition. You’re a good man Leon, but in a bad way. She knows I’ve served my country. I pay my taxes. I do what I’m told. But in my truck, I’ve got an eight-pound hammer that likes revenge. Everything I hate becomes a nail.