"No, you don't," Mr. Malcolm said smoothly. "You told the other copy boys you hated the city and as soon as you could, you were going to leave it."
Stan gaped. "How did you know?"
"We know a lot of things." Mr. Malcolm leaned casually back in his chair, inspecting Stan like he would a butterfly on a pin. "We know that you hate your mother. And your brother."
"Where do you get that stuff?" Stan bleated, his voice rising. "What are you trying to prove?"
"Fred. Again."
Tanner had to help Stan up.
"I'm going to be sick," Stan said faintly.
The man behind the desk ignored him. "Your mother used to take a strap to you when you came home late, Martin. She used to accuse you of stealing in the stores."
Lies, Stan thought. But he didn't dare talk back.
"Your brother, Larry. He was always your mother's favorite, wasn't he? She always did a lot of things for him that she never did for you, didn't she?"