But he was a dead man with an agenda. He stared at the walls of what was now his home and tried to decide if he was ready to get on with it. The walls, with their blistered and peeling paint and unidentifiable, multi-hued stains, were disheartening. Just like almost everything since his "death." He’d taken this one-room in the Green Tree Hill Apartments, a run-down, sleazebag motel that offered monthly rates. The ad for the apartment had sounded far better than the reality had turned out, but it was better than the rest Andy had checked out. Some of those hadn’t even had locks on the doors. He’d taken it because he needed somewhere to slump, and he needed to conserve his cash, especially after dumping so much for upgrades to the Sony.