He sees this with his hands around her throat, Anne decided.

“Let me ask you one more time, Dr. Raleigh: anything you want to get off your chest?”

“No.” Raleigh was shaking and began to cry.

Anne watched closely as the minister broke down again. She felt strangely distant. Blackburn went for a confession, but he’s also trying to get headlines and TV time. He went hard. Maybe too hard. But Anne had heard and seen enough. She was ready to convict Raleigh right then and there.

“We pass the witness, Your Honor.”

April 8

[ APRIL 8 ]

Oglesby passed back the essay tests on To Kill a Mockingbird with grim quietude. Once he had every paper returned—from Atherton to Winkleman—he let the sophomores read over his comments while retrieving his teaching stick Ptolemy, a blue and gold scepter with a shepherd’s crook, from the well of the blackboard.

Dan leafed to the last page. He had done all right. A flat A with an “Interesting” next to his answer for what was really on trial in the book, and an “Excellent” by his explanation of all the bird names—the Finches, Tom Robinson—and how they related to the title. Phew. Got all five names for Scout too. He looked over the slumped shoulders of Cameron Coleman in front of him. A sea of red marks. Ouch.

“So now we turn to Animal Farm by Mr. Orwell. Everyone up on their reading? That is the case, right, Mr. Humphrey?”

“If you have no further follow-up questions, then yes, absolutely, sir.”

Oglesby stamped the floor with Ptolemy. “Rule number sixteen: by failing to prepare, you are preparing to fail. Gentlemen, you are almost upperclassmen. Don’t waste my time.”

Oglesby wheeled around to the teacher’s desk and picked up his copy of the Orwell.

“Mr. Dowlearn, what kind of a story is Animal Farm?”

“An allegory, sir.”

“Good. An allegory about . . . ?”

Rob raised his hand like he was shooting a free throw. “The British Empire?”

“The Russian Revolution,” Oglesby replied flatly. “I’m not giving anything away—if you had read the preface by Mr. Orwell, he tells you that.”

Frustrated, Oglesby looked up from his paperback at the asbestos tiles in the ceiling. It was Friday, the golden afternoon streaming, tantalizing, through the blinds. Everyone was restless and semipresent. Right then, he tacked to a different course.

“You need to understand this book deeply, gentlemen, because Animal Farm is the key to winning the Game. And since we’re clearly not ready to discuss Animal Farm, I’m going to explain the Game and assign roles.”

He threw his Orwell paperback at his army bag and came to his signature position—chin resting on the back of two hands that lay on the top of his teaching stick. He had kicked the sophomores out of the horse latitudes of a Friday and gotten their attention.