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A Job's a Job

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It was like having grandparents, he supposed. He got tired of hot pot, but the thing about the Wainthropps was that he always knew that at least there'd be something on the table, even if it meant that all three of them had scant portions.

Once a week he got paid, and once a week he handed Robert a check for room and board in return, like an formal pantomime of employment. But paychecks or not, he never quite felt like an employee. Especially not at the breakfast table, when Mrs. Wainthropp generally asked whether he'd washed behind his ears.