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In grade school when one of Albert’s teachers had said “everybody’s special,” a classmate quipped, “Albert’s terminally special.” He was probably right. Albert had never felt at home in the world; he didn’t know why people did what they did, or thought what they thought, or were the way they were. And talking to them only made things worse. Not that he really ever noticed . . . until they started killing each other all around him. Suddenly, he had to understand, because one of the people they were trying to kill, was him.