Excerpt: Title? What title? I see no title!

James was not very smart, hansom, athletic, or in any other way distinctive, even his name was average, but you can't have everything. He knew he wasn't the brightest, but it didn't really bother him, there are plenty worse things than making a C average. What he lacked in brain power he more than made up for in good-will. He had a strong, if naïve, belief in how things ought to be. To his mind it made no sense to lock up a bunch of people on an island just because they were different, and the obvious conclusion that he came to was that he aught to stop it. However, unlike the few 'normal humans' who agreed with him, he could do something about it. James didn't know it, but he really wasn't normal, despite his average height, average weight, average brown hair cut to the average length, average brown eyes, slightly crooked teeth that could not be called unusual, and /slightly/ smaller than normal ears. For all fifteen years of his rather comfortable life he had simply thought that he was just one of those people that people liked, so, when he told the guy with the British accent who had answered the phone that he was an Abnormal, James was completely unaware that he wasn't lying. He had seen the article in the newspaper about a new 'Multigenerational Educational Facility for Abnormals' and had over heard one jackass tell another that it was a good thing that they were finally penning up the freaks on an island away from real people, and he decided that the someone to put a stop to this was obviously James D. Patrickson III. The guy on the phone told him that he'd send an agent out to interview him to make sure that he qualified and assured him that it was "the right thing to do", whatever that was supposed to mean. He had assured his parents that this was definitely what he wanted to do, that it was not just for Abnormals, and that it would be a great thing to put on a resume; of course they believed him. On this particular day, it was a blistering hot Thursday, he was waiting for the agent that the British guy had told him would be coming. He watched the gray asphalt, the yellow grass in his small yard, the withering flowers in his neighbor's yard, and then tried to decide whether the fake flamingo's in an old lady's yard were melting. He had just come to the conclusion that one was definitely listing to the left a little when a silver bus with tinted windows whined to a stop at the corner of Market and Oak and then huffed up to his house. He couldn't see inside, but a serious looking man in a suit and tie with a black suitcase proceeded to marched to his front door and rapped it three times on it as though his hand were a hammer and the door a nail. James had already unstuck his sweaty arm from the fake leather of the couch and was at the door before the first knock. Grinning broadly, he opened the door and welcomed the stranger in.