Then they hustled into the library and took their places, Kellen in a small overstuffed chair with an ottoman that weighed a ton, Max in the large overstuffed chair.

Rae sat down at the desk, picked up a pen, opened her brand-new journal—and stared at the blank page. And stared. And stared.

To give her privacy, Kellen opened Ruby’s diary and started reading aloud what they’d read this afternoon.

After a few moments, Max interrupted her. “What’s wrong, Rae?”

Rae looked up, vaguely alarmed. “What should I write?”

“I never kept a journal, but my sister did,” Max said.

“Aunt Irene has a journal?” Rae asked.

“She begged for a journal. She got it for Christmas, then she wrote in it for about a week and that was that.” Max rolled his eyes, all disgusted older brother.

Kellen cleared her throat.

Max changed his tone. “But look at Ruby! She wrote in hers for years, and she wrote about whatever was happening to her at that moment.”

“Nothing’s happening to me!” Rae retorted.

Kellen decided to step in. “You could write about what you did today and yesterday, what you read, what you ate.”

“That’s boring.” Rae was looking desperate.

“How you feel?” Max suggested.

“I feel fine.”

“We mean, what are your feelings are about being here on Isla Paraíso? You were pretty angry at first.” Kellen hoped the gentle reminder would not trigger any grand drama. “How do you feel now?”

“Okay,” Rae muttered.

“I’m asking. I’m not prying!” Maybe Kellen should stop trying to help. “That’s what the journal is for. You tell it your real feelings and thoughts, your hope and dreams. Like Ruby did.”

“Like I tell Chloe?”

“Right,” Max said.

“Maybe I could pretend to write Chloe a letter?”

“Or Grandma,” Kellen said.

“It’s your journal. You can do whatever you like,” Max assured her.

Rae began to write slowly, then with greater speed.

To catch Max up, Kellen opened Ruby’s journal and read aloud the passages she and Rae had read earlier. When she got to the line, “‘I locked myself in. Now I wait to see what Father will do when he receives my letter. Rage, I imagine,’” Rae put down her pen, moved to the center of the room and reclined on the rug. Staring at the ceiling, she listened.

Indeed, I was right. Father raged and pounded on the door. He cursed me and denounced me. He forbade anybody in the household from communicating with me or helping me, and in the afternoon, men barricaded me in. Father shouted that when I was ready to surrender and marry the beast he had obtained for me, I should wave a white flag out the window like the rest of the Japanese cowards would soon do.

I told him, in a proud voice, that I am not Japanese, I’m American. He sneered and left.