His bedroom is, of course, next door to hers. He knows partially that this is about him, something about him -- he was sick or did something. But she casts it as grief and then she casts even that off: This is about new beginnings, plain and simple. His father is dead and his brother might as well be, but those were just mistakes. This is the thing that was meant to be. This is what they built. All she ever wanted was a home.
Norman: "Maybe some people don't get to start over, maybe they just bring themselves to a new place."
Norma: "You say that a lot, and less than you think it. You think I'm impulsive and irresponsible, because you don't see the way I have to take apart and put this world back together every time it invades, with my hands. But you will. You'll understand what it's like out there and why we need this place to be safe. But until then I will describe it another way. People do get do-overs, sometimes. But they have to try."
You have no idea how hard they have to try. You will: The world is torture.
He's listening to classical at the bus stop, he's got some ideas about himself and what people do. How to live. A girl from the tortured world sees him and jumps, seizing on him: There is something there, isn't there. Some kind of innocence or a... he's untouched. Still new. But he's not soft, either. He's not shy. There's a difference between quiet and shy. She can see that too.
She drags the girls along with her -- nameless for now -- to question him. There should be three, classically there would be three, but there have to be four, for reasons we'll see in a second.
What is the boy's name? Norman Bates. When did Norman Bates move here? Last night. Where? What house? This house; the motel. So you bought the motel? To live or to flip? We're not flipping, he says, with conviction. Not this time. Does he have brothers? Just Dylan, just the half-blood mistake. But not here.
Norman: "It's just me and my mom."
Girl: "Got a girlfriend?"
Norman: "What did I just say?"
Another one rolls up in a brand-new car and they squeal. He smiles, content to let them leave with her. There's a lot to look at. But they can't let him go or leave him behind. There's something about him. Like a little toy. Like a man you could keep as a pet, safe behind the locks. She ushers him into the back of the convertible and climbs onto him: Four girls, three seats, one Norman. We don't even know we're doing it, half the time.