Honest to Christ, if they wanted people to come to this country, why were they so uptight at airport security? Cooper grumbled under his breath as he glanced down at the sheet of paper in his hand. And why the goddamn hell didn't they just put numbers on the buildings? How was he supposed to find this address?<br/><br/>(http://www.kiwianarama.co.nz/wp-content/uploads/2009/02/soulpatch-240x240.jpg)<br/><br/>He sighed heavily. Honestly, the struggle to get his ratchet set through customs had been the worst of it. The day was warm and bright, and the walk from the train station had been pleasant even if it was mostly uphill. And the effort to make it here to Spain would be amply rewarded by the number of euros a month he would be pulling down here. If his math were right, that is. He was pretty sure it was...<br/><br/>Cooper stopped short at the looming whitewashed wall. End of the line; end of the street. He looked down at the paper, back up at the wall with its black iron gates. Wait a minute, there was a small name plate over the intercom grille: The Place.<br/><br/>"The Place?" he muttered, and shifted his duffel from one shoulder to the other. "Jeez. They weren't kidding." He stepped to the intercom and pressed the button.