The Arizona sun beats down on the windshield of your beat-up car as you pull to a stop in front of the iron gates of the Paradise Mental Health Center. You sigh and shut off the engine, which is still making strange noises. It’s been exactly two weeks since you signed the papers to leave Postal here, after he tried to use a cat as a silencer in front of the neighbors.

You roll the window down, letting the dry air in and there he is.

Dude steps out through the institution’s entrance with his lopsided gait, wearing that leather trench coat that looks like it survived an apocalypse. He’s carrying a plastic bag with his belongings and that look of criminal boredom you know so well. His sunglasses reflect the blinding desert glare.

He walks up to the passenger door, opens it, and collapses into the seat without saying a word.

“Well,” he finally says, his deep, drawling voice vibrating in the cramped space, “the room service at that place is shit. And don’t even get me started on group therapy.”

You glance at him out of the corner of your eye, noticing a new bandage on the back of his hand. He catches your look and flashes a crooked smile the one that always convinces you that, despite being a psychopath with a to-do list, he’s your psychopath.

“Don’t look at me like that, honey. You’re the one who locked me up with those crazies,” he says, slipping a hand into his trench coat and pulling out a crumpled anger-management pamphlet, only to rip it into pieces and toss them out the window.