“But fortunately his sister Eileen was there, and she snatched the pages out of the stove. She rescued this book. And later, when Joyce came to his senses, he realized what he had almost lost, and what he couldn’t have rewritten, and thanked his sister.

“The point, gentlemen, is that this is hard stuff. Truly great artists must suffer to create. The hardest, most honest writing is a product of fear, anxiety, and paranoia that, when it works, we call genius. And who knows what would have happened to Joyce if this book had burned? Does he give up? Does he go on to write anything else?

“So think about that as you try to understand a writer. Think about their fears and doubts. Realize Joyce, for all his staggering knowledge, didn’t know what to make of his own life half the time. Just because the type is fixed to the page doesn’t make the author superhuman. And consider the matter of seconds between a finished book and a pile of ashes. Now, let me collect your journals.”

Dan reached into his backpack and dug around. Shit. At his locker he had the journal in his hand. So stupid. A sudden woven anger overtook him, and he threw his bag to the ground.

“Mr. Malone, is there a problem?”

“I left my journal in my locker.”

“What’s rule number four, Mr. Malone?”

“‘Your journal is your life-force.’ I’m sorry, sir, I just—”

“Don’t apologize, Mr. Malone, just come prepared.”

“I did the assignment, can I go get it from my locker?”

Oglesby reached Dan’s desk and tugged at his tie menacingly. “Mr. Malone, why does your soul lust after its own destruction? Bring your journal to my office at the end of the day with a bonus entry.”

“Ha, hosed.” Cameron Coleman sniggered.

Dan shook his head, gravely accepting his fate. “What’s the topic?”

“Rule number two: organization is the key to high school.”

More mocking laughter from the rest of the class. As he let go of the noose of Dan’s tie, Oglesby changed his mind.

“Actually, life rafts.”

“Life rafts?”

The period bell tolled.

“One hundred words on life rafts. You’re floating along in here, Mr. Malone, doing enough to survive. It’s time for you to figure out what this class means and what your involvement in life is going to be. See you after ninth period.”

Dan pinballed out of the room and down the hallway to his next class. He had done the writing, and this unforced error aggravated him. He now had to carve out time for another journal entry—So long, lunch and free period. But that wasn’t half as painful as the realization: Maybe Oglesby’s right. I need to act smarter. Like a Norwegian rat.