Everything normal people thought was funny, dramatic, poignant, or important seemed so . . . pointless? Stupid? Insane? He couldn’t find the right word for it. He wondered if the last stretch inside had wrecked him for regular life. He felt twitchy and restless. He took a sip of his ninth cup of coffee and thought about it. One of his eyelids twitched. His right foot, against his wishes, was beating out the drum solo from “In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida.” He set the coffee down. Maybe it was time to take a break. He got up to have a smoke outside when the front door opened and Morty came in with bags. They smelled good.

“I was in Burbank checking out some stuff, so I got us lunch,” he said, setting down two bags from Bob’s Big Boy on the kitchen table. Coop went over to where he was laying out the food. Morty held up a paper cup. “Coffee?” he said.

“I’ll pass, thanks,” said Coop, trying to keep from vibrating.

“More for me,” said Morty. He laid out burgers, fries, and fistfuls of ketchup packs. “What have you been up to while I was gone?”

Coop glanced at the TV. He’d left it on a game show. A guy spun a wheel, shouting and shaking like if he lost the host was going to take away his heart medicine, and for a brief moment he was interested until he remembered that wasn’t how the games worked. “Nothing,” he said. “Attempting to reintegrate into society and finding myself somewhat unmotivated to do so.”

“That sounds like something a warden would say.”

“That’s who said it to me. Something like that, anyway.”

Morty peeled the paper off his burger and took a bite, talking out the side of his mouth while he chewed. “Prison is all about routine. You don’t have a routine anymore. That’s why you need to get back to work.”

“I need something,” Coop said. “Work. Or a lobotomy.”

“Don’t talk like that. Did you look over those plans and things Babylon gave us?”

Coop went to the coffee table and brought over a pile of blueprints and computer printouts. Some were simple spreadsheets with names and office assignments. Other sheets looked like complex astrological charts by way of NASA eggheads. Coop dropped them on the table.

“I was going over these last night.”

“And what do you think? Can we do the job?”

“No.”

“What?” said Morty. He choked on a mouthful of burger and grabbed a cup of coffee to keep from passing out, only to end up burning his tongue. “Whuh doo ya min we cand doo id?”

Coop smacked him on the back.

“What do you mean we can’t do it? We told Mr. Babylon we would. I don’t want to go back there with bad news and have him shoot me with one of those heat ray guns.”