After the dismissal bell, Dan made his way down the long hall that held the counseling wing. In addition to being an honors English teacher, Oglesby was the senior counselor in charge of college placement. Dan poked his head around the corner into Oglesby’s office; he was returning calls to nervous parents of seniors. He waved in Dan, who plunked down in a low-slung creamsicle-colored lounge chair. By the doorway was an oversized umbrella stand that housed all of Oglesby’s teaching sticks, most of them hewn in shop and gifted by acolytes from sophomore classes past. Above the stand was a framed postcard that read: “The beatings will continue until morale improves.” Oglesby sat behind a credenza desk in a padded pleather office chair that creaked and pinged like a shot transmission when he leaned back. Above his desk were diplomas for a bachelor’s in English from UT and a master’s in counseling from the University of Dallas. And one more framed dictum—two words in large gothic type: cura personalis.

Oglesby hung up the phone and, without making eye contact with Dan, put out his hand. Dan reached into his bag and pulled out the yellow spiral notebook that was his journal.

“Did you complete the extra assignment, Mr. Malone?”

“I did.”

Oglesby flipped to the last entry. “This is it . . . ‘The Raft of Life’?”

“Yes, sir.”

Oglesby started to read aloud: “‘The Raft of Life . . . ’”

Humanity is on its raft. The raft is on an endless ocean. From his present dissatisfaction man reasons that there was a catastrophic wreck in the past, before which he was happy in some Edenic existence. Man also believes that somewhere ahead lies a promised shore, a land of peace. But at present man is miserably in passage.

“Hmm . . .” Oglesby handed the journal back to Dan, shaking his head with apparent disappointment. “I was afraid of this.”

Dan seized up. “Sir, I promise you I did all the assignments before class today.”

“That’s not the problem, Mr. Malone.” Oglesby tried to rub the tiredness out of his face with both hands. He threw himself back in the creaky chair. “The problem is that you have the talent to be the best writer in the class.”

“Oh.”

“This piece is good. When did you write this?”

“Free period . . . and in Father Payne’s theology.”

Oglesby reached forward and drummed on the coffee mug on his desk. “Mr. Malone, why are you here?”

“At Jesuit?”

“Sure.”

“To learn.”

“Besides the obvious.” With a wide, deep gaze, Oglesby corralled Dan’s attention and bore down on him. “Think. Why are you here?”

“Because the Earth cooled at a moderate distance from the sun, and of all the orders of mammals, primates evolved from tails and knuckle dragging to bipedal locomotion and opposable thumbs.”