But the pain in his head was different. It was special, apparently.

 

They had never fully explained that one. It was his brain after all. The most

important organ he had. It was what made him him. Or not him, in Rogers’s case.

 

He paid the bill and walked back to his car. He drove to another part of the

small town, parked, and settled down for the night.

 

As the hours passed and the darkness deepened, Rogers lay there and stared at

the ceiling of the car. It was stained and faded and generally worn out.

 

He was stained, faded, and should have been worn out. But his energy level had

never been higher.

 

It was only during his last year in prison that certain parts of his mind had

become fully accessible to him. And that was why he had marshaled all of his

strength and determination and sat in front of the parole board and said all the

right things. His remorse. His learning from his mistakes. His wanting to lead a

good, productive life going forward. He was being sincere—well, mostly. He had

learned from his mistakes. He did want to be productive going forward. He had

even forced some tears.

 

But he felt no remorse, because he was incapable of the emotion.