“That’s a better answer, but don’t miss my point, Mr. Malone—you have it.” Oglesby leaned forward and tapped his finger on Dan’s journal. “Your ability to think while you write. Your retention for story and detail. These are important skills. This essay—this is you. It’s smart, it’s a little dark, and it’s not sure where it’s going. So, Mr. Malone: why are you here?”

No one had ever challenged him in this way. Without knowing what to say, he spoke.

“I’m here to become a Norwegian rat.”

“Good. Then come to my class prepared. Being a Norwegian rat is not just answering the questions you know the answers to. You have to gnaw out of your cage, Malone. You have to show me more writing like this. Are you ready to work?” Oglesby creaked back in his chair, casting just enough doubt on Dan to spur him.

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m going to give you another assignment. This is not a punishment. Think of it as a training exercise.”

Oglesby launched out of his chair toward his bookshelves. He pulled down what looked like a gray textbook.

“Do you know who Bob Dylan is?”

“Uh . . .”

“That’s okay. That’s ideal, actually.” Oglesby then riffled through his army backpack and produced a tape. “A former student of mine—he goes to Plan II at Texas now—made this mix of his favorite Dylan songs. Take the tape and this book.”

Dan looked down at the cover, squiggles of graffiti over a photostat of Dylan. LYRICS 1962–1985.

“I want you to listen to the tape. Study the lyrics. Write about them. Tell me what you think. Mr. Malone, prove to me that you are ready for this. Prove to me you’re a candidate for Norwegian rat. Try to answer the question that everyone—Dylan, Joyce—the question they all ask: why are we here?” Oglesby turned to his desk and let out a dramatic sigh of resignation. “Now get lost. I have parents coming in who have phenomenological certainty that their precious offspring must attend Duke University despite his mediocre grades and SATs and a hokey essay about baseball and life throwing him curveballs.”

Dan got up and walked to the door.

“Oh, and, Mr. Malone—congratulations on becoming the editor of The Roundup. I’ve been dealing with upperclassman complaints about Father Argerlich all day. I’m glad you stepped up.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you.”

Oglesby smiled and waved him off. “Now don’t screw it up.”