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I knocked, and after a few seconds -- it seemed like a few minutes -- Justin said "come in" with a tone of utter resignation. We found him hunched over his desk, examining a book about insects and apparently writing something on a sheet of lined paper. He didn't turn to greet us.

"Hi, fella," Albert said.

Justin looked back at us, mildly surprised to see Albert. "Oh, hullo," he said, "Mr. Barstow."

"Albert," Albert said. "Watcha reading?"

They both turned to look at the book. I had seen this insect book, with its huge, grotesque pictures of glistening mandibles and segmented thoraxes, before. So I took the opportunity to surreptitiously examine what Justin had been writing.

To my surprise, it didn't seem to have anything to do with schoolwork.... it seemed to be some kind of odd poem that snaked down the page in an S-shaped curve of text. I could only make out some of it:

We have come a long way
to tell you what most of you
have long suspected:
that your home is elsewhere,
that your exile is self-imposed.

--from "Mirror in the Sky" (by me), originally published by Cenotaph