He still wasn't sure if this was going to work out. Maybe he wasn't meant to be "normal" as others were. But some shred of hope existed that this Autobot was going to sort everything out. So he kept coming.

He would do anything, he thought, to be able to feel alive -- to feel he was worth something in this world. This had to help, somehow.

He was always right on time. And always waited, patiently, in the hallway once he'd knocked. It didn't matter if the Autobot was busy. He'd wait. He'd wait as long as it took.

This was supposed to help -- to fix everything, after all.