"I'm a little tired. I had a hard night."
"What was she like?"
"Dismal."
Everything was dismal. The jingles ran through his head endlessly. So did the slogans and the words from the sound truck. He was beginning to doubt himself.
Perhaps they were right. Perhaps he did need to belong.
That night the sound truck was still there. It circled the block, advertising the Organization and denouncing Henry Westing.
There were signs on all the houses too. We Belong to the Organization, the signs said. There was a sign on every door except his.
He went upstairs and made dinner. Then he sat by the window and tried to think. Down below he could hear the sound truck.
They're getting to you, he thought. A little more and they'll have you whipped. You'd better do something.