For a split second Jack considered the proposition. It was doubtful that Samuel Greene, a pleasant art teacher who clearly dealt with the aliens well would turn out to be a psychotic murderer in his spare time. Horror movies said otherwise.

"Sure, I have some time to come over," Jack responded optimistically, pushing out thoughts of him getting stabbed by paintbrushes. By some time, he meant a lot of time. Other then a few random things jotted down (that could be rearranged at any point), his schedule was basically open. All the time. Every day.

He followed Samuel out of the room, "It's alright if I just follow you? Or do you need a ride? Or do you get a ride from someone else? Ehh..." Jack had a difficult time gauging how old the other was other than he was younger. God... Thirty years old. It was depressing. Soon he'd be too old to even consider being a part of alien making.