"But you're agreeing with Mr. Malcolm," he whispered. "Honest, you must be a little crazy, too." Mr. Ainsworth looked hurt. "I'm your friend, Stan--I wouldn't lie to you! I didn't save your life just so I could tell you lies!" It was crazy, Stan thought. He had been on his way to the stockyards one morning and the roof had fallen in. He had been kidnapped and tortured apparently for no other reason than to be told he hated his family. It didn't make sense. He dropped his cigarette on the carpet and ground it out under his heel. "You're just as bad as the others--you're working right in with them!" Mr. Ainsworth looked disappointed and pressed a button on his desk. Tanner appeared in the doorway, his face as impersonal as ever. "You'll have to take him back, Fred." He looked at Stan sadly. "We're trying to be your friends, son, and you won't let us. We're only telling you the truth!" Stan started to shake. "You can go to hell," he blurted. Tanner took him by the arm to lead him out and the very touch of his hand made Stan tremble even more. He was shaking like a leaf, and he couldn't stop it. It had been such an odd thing. When he had told Mr. Ainsworth he was as bad as the others, Mr. Ainsworth had ... flickered. CHAPTER III They stripped him and put him in a room that felt like the inside of a packing-house refrigerator. His breath came in little wisps of fog and if he stood in one place too long, his feet started to freeze to the floor. He had to keep moving to keep warm and he realized he couldn't keep moving forever. It was cold and damp and at periodic intervals, it rained from pipes overhead. Water that quickly froze on the floor and made his hair a mass of frosted crystals and then started to freeze on him. He only lasted four hours in the cold room. When they took him out, his nails were broken from clawing at the door frame and he had started to bleed at the fingertips. Mr. Malcolm questioned him again. Why wouldn't he admit that he hated his family? His mother was responsible for his father deserting the family. And his brother used to squeal on him when he was small and had even taken money that Stan used to leave on the dresser. Stan made the mistake of laughing and ended up in a cell where he couldn't stand, where he had to remain stooped all the time. A small tray of slops appeared after each time he slept and once every sleeping period, somebody cleaned it out. Mr. Ainsworth questioned him next and it meant a bath and food and cigarettes and rest. He took them and enjoyed them. Then he told Mr. Ainsworth what he thought of him. They threw him in a small, pitch-black cell and left him there. For weeks. Months.