He spent his time huddled in a corner, thinking of the city and his mother and Larry and what Spring looked like and how leaves that ended up in the Fall as large as your hand, started out as nothing more than a strip of green no bigger than his fingernail. A dozen times a period, he went over the last scene his eyes had glimpsed from Mr. Ainsworth's car. The drab houses and the green trees and the tiny stretch of blue beyond.... And then there were the days when he didn't think of anything--though he was to wonder later if it had been days or weeks or even only hours. There was nothing by which to judge time, though he tried to keep track of his own pulse and counted the beats into minutes and the minutes into hours and the hours into days. It was Mr. Ainsworth who rescued him. "It's been a long time since I've seen you, son." "You know where I've been." "Don't hate me, Stan. I'm only trying to help you." "I appreciate it," Stan said dryly. And the odd thing was, he honestly _did_ appreciate it. Ainsworth represented sleep and a bath and food and clean clothes. And he was grateful. Like any dog that had been kicked and starved and then wagged its tail when it was patted on the head. And knowing all of this didn't change his reactions in the least. "Stan," Mr. Ainsworth said quietly, "they want you to say that you hate your family. You say you don't. Perhaps you believe that. But would it hurt to merely _say_ that you do? You don't have to actually believe it." He paused. "And to be perfectly truthful, I'm afraid that you might not live very much longer if you're not willing to go that far." Stan jerked, as if somebody had jabbed him with a pin. To come so near to dying so many times had made life seem infinitely precious. And what did it matter, actually? Some of the things they had been telling him--they weren't exactly lies. "All right," he said dully. "So I hate the city. And I hate my folks." Somewhere in his mind, a keystone crumbled. "That's the way, son. Play it smart!" Mr. Ainsworth looked very proud of himself, as if Stan had just passed a difficult test. "It's not supposed to stop there, is it?" Stan asked. "What am I supposed to believe in next, so you people won't kill me?" "I don't think you're looking at it in the right light," Mr. Ainsworth said coldly, and Stan was panic-stricken for fear he would call in Fred and have him taken back to the cold room or the small cell. "We're just telling you things about yourself that you didn't know before." "Sure," Stan said quickly, trying to sound sincere. "You're just telling me things I never would have suspected."