The bell rang, and Oglesby was about to start when a yell went up from the senior courtyard. Everyone turned to the windows as a blur of khaki pants—a doofy-looking freshman with curly blond hair and clear aviator glasses—sprinted by. It was the annual rabbit chase—when a freshman tried to cross the senior courtyard on a dare. He had made it past the benches, hooked around two half-stoned seniors, did a taunting Bugs Bunny soft-shoe in front of the chapel, and lit out for his escape route—the back door to the cafeteria kitchen.

But there was a problem. The back door was locked. The freshman looked through the glass pane desperately. There was no one there to pop the door open. Betrayed by his accomplice, he turned and surrendered as seniors from each end of the breezeway poured into the courtyard. The vigilantes came out of nowhere, including the entire varsity o-line, their numbers, in the seventies, stretched across XXL game-day jerseys. The sophomores pressed to the windows to watch.

Sticky shook his head. “Dead meat.”

“Almost made it,” Dan replied, rooting for the underdog.

“Swirlie?” Rick asked. “Or wind sprints in tighty-whiteys?”

The seniors grabbed the freshman by the arms and legs and carried him out of the courtyard and toward the locker rooms. A freshman health class from down the courtyard cheered his attempt, and the hostage raised a defiant fist.

“Definitely swirlies,” Sticky decided.

Oglesby thwacked Thumper on the teacher’s desk. “Gentlemen, the short, exciting life of that freshman is now over. Return to your seats.”

They settled in, and Oglesby began prowling back and forth across the front of the classroom, Thumper poking and pinging off the floor, the chalkboard, the radiator, and the first row of sophomores. He turned and put a death grip on Rob’s shoulder and smiled.

“So what is the main problem the boys face on the island?”

Rob’s shyness kicked in, and he chinned into his button-down collar for an answer. “Mmm, food? Shelter?”

“Perhaps at first, but what do they fear?”

“The Beast,” Philip Humphrey spat out. “They fear the pig as a monster.”

Dan half raised his hand but then put it back down, afraid to be called on. Oglesby saw the hesitation and pounced.

“Mr. Ma-lone”—Oglesby said his name slowly, like the spider to the fly—“care to contribute?”

Dan seized with regret. “No, sir, I’m good.”

“Are you good with a failing grade for participation in my class?”

Jesus . . . Dan brought it back to what Oglesby had written on the board. “Their main problem is each other.”

Oglesby took two steps closer to Dan, a menacing Socratic scrutiny. “Go on, Malone.”