Rachel was academically first in the class. “I’m planning to come down with mono,” said Rachel. “I just have to finish this project and get it in on time, and then I’ll quickly get a fever and some fatigue and need to be home for several days, especially the one my speech is scheduled on.”

Everybody laughed. Half the time the speakers for Class Day got sick. People pretended to be sympathetic, but the sickness was better known as panic. Who on earth would want to stand up in front of four hundred classmates and talk about truth and the future for fifteen minutes? Or fifteen seconds, for that matter?

“I wanted to be first in the class,” said Jennifer, “and my parents ordered me to be first, but my rank is eleven, and the good news is, no matter how many people get sick, I am not going to have to give a speech.”

“It’s sort of like the royal family,” said Matt, who was fourth in the class. “An awful lot of them would have to die in a plane crash for you to be the one who gets the throne.”

“You might,” said Rachel thoughtfully.

“No, because I have a low blood count, too,” said Matt. “The thought of getting up on that stage and facing the toughest audience on earth on the toughest subject on earth—the meaning of life and school—is enough to give anybody a low blood count.”

The meaning of life and school, thought Macey. She was slumped over and jammed up, and her defense of perfect posture failed her: Every word that Wade Sibley had spoken began grinding through her mind, like a long train on a long track.

“Move, Macey,” said Jennifer, “you’re next in line. Take Shannon’s seat.” Jennifer pushed Macey in front of the same computer she’d crashed the day she shut it down too fast after reading about Adam Devers.

Macey slung her purse and book bag by their straps over the chair and noodled around to a search engine. If she typed “railroads,” there’d be a million hits. She had to think of parameters.

Adam Devers, she thought.

“I’m supposed to talk for fifteen minutes,” said Rachel. “Do you have any idea how long fifteen minutes is? I slaved over a speech, and when I timed it, it’s two minutes and twenty seconds long.”

Adam Devers. Macey’s spine crawled. Her hands iced. Her head seemed too heavy to hold up.

“That’s as long as we want to listen,” Jennifer assured her.

Everybody laughed and made disgusting suggestions for what to do with the other twelve minutes and forty seconds.

Macey found the newspaper site. She scrolled to the obituary index. Once more she read the brief notice of the suicide of Adam Devers.

November 30, 1960.

Almost one year to the day after the fire.