Tanner casually lashed out with the flat of his hand and caught Stan on the side of the head—hard. Stan staggered against the wall and half-slid to the floor. He could feel the tears start again.

"Hey! What's the...."

"Again, Fred."

Stan crumpled to the floor, shook his head, and struggled back to his feet. He was dazed but he knew enough not to say anything.

"What's your name?"

"Stanley Martin. I told...."

"Fred."

The blow rocked him but he managed to keep his feet. His legs felt like water.

"How many of your family are living, Martin?"

"Just my mother." He licked his cracked lips. "And my brother. That's all."

"You've lived in Chicago all your life?"

"Yes ... yes, sir."

Mr. Malcolm finally put down the reports he had been reading and looked up at him. If Tanner's eyes had been cold, Stan thought, then Mr. Malcolm's eyes were frozen.

"You don't like Chicago, do you?"

"I ... I guess I like it well enough."

"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."

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