Boys. 

In the stall, Ron Carver looked down at the spindly frame that was now his body, and began to weep. Andy heard him, but said nothing. Then they dressed and ambled back to the main house, sharing the awkward silence of new friends. 

Finally, the older boy said: "I don't mean to butt in, Ronnie. But is somethin' the matter?" 

"I--I don't know, Andy. I'm all mixed up. I don't even know how I got here." 

"That's easy. Dr. Minton brought you." 

"But where is he now, Andy? Dr. Minton? It's very important that I see him." 

Andy shrugged. "Not much chance of that. Dr. Minton only comes around once, twice a year." 

"But I have to see him! Right away! Will they call him for me?" 

"Gosh. I don't think so. He's some kind of big shot in the government now." 

They flopped on the grass, and Andy tore out a ragged clump and chewed on it blankly. Ron said: "Andy, I'm in trouble. I need some help." 

"No kidding?" 

"Yes!" He brought his voice to a whisper. "Andy--what if I told you that I was really--" He stopped, and examined the open, innocent face in front of his eyes. He knew that it would be useless to tell the truth. "Skip it," he said. 

"I don't get you. What's on your mind, Ronnie?" 

"Nothing, Andy. I just have to get away from here." 

"But you can't. I mean, not until they let you. It's the rules." 

"Andy--how long have you been here?" 

The boy thought a moment. "Almost nine years," he said blissfully. "Since my folks got killed." 

"How long do you have to stay?" 

"Why, 'til I'm old enough to work. Eighteen, I guess." 

_Only six years to go_, Ron thought sourly. 

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