"They took me to see a Mr. Malcolm the other day," Stan said in a low voice. "He told me I hated the city and that I even hated my own mother and brother. Can you beat that? Honest, this character...."
His voice trailed away. Mr. Ainsworth was staring at the floor, a frown on his face.
"Everybody builds up resentments against parents who are overly strict, Stan. And it's not unusual for a mother to favor one of her children over the others."
Stan stared at him, open-mouthed.
"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!"