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that if it raises the price, its customers will switch to Max’s. So Bob’s hires my father to help them buy Max’s company. Once Bob’s owns Max’s it can charge whatever it wants for its ice cream.
    My mother runs a crisis management firm. She helps companies and people who are in trouble. Suppose Tom’s Construction Company builds a building that falls down and kills a bunch of people. The relatives of the people who died tell the newspapers they think the building fell down because Tom didn’t build it right. But Tom thinks the building fell down because Mary’s Brick Company sold them bad bricks. So Tom hires my mom’s company to make sure the newspapers know that it was Mary’s fault, not his. Or suppose a famous actress gets caught shoplifting. She’s worried the bad publicity will ruin her career, so she hires my mom’s company to explain that she accidentally took the wrong medicine and didn’t know what she was doing.
    I got an A. Back then I always got As. But even the As weren’t enough. At home my father thought the essay was funny, but my mom got mad because she said it made what she did sound too simple. And besides, she said, I should have written about her first and my dad second because she owned her own company while my dad worked for someone else.
    To fight the monotony and boredom of TI, I begin to relive memories: the day I walked into math class and saw Sabrina for the first time, in a red short-sleeved dress, writing an equation on the board; the first time we met outside of school; the first kiss; the first time we made love; and then every time after that.
    When I run out of those memories, I recall family vacations—Caribbean beaches, snow-covered mountains in British Columbia, Italian museums—day by day and then hour by hour. I play songs in my head. Then entire CDs, track by track. Then movies, especially my favorites, scene by scene. All this helps, but not enough. Sooner or later an ache or a sudden hunger pang or a full bladder brings me back, and once again I am lying on the cold, hard floor aware of every second grinding slowly past.
    â€œTell us what you learned in TI, Garrett,” Joe orders.
    A week or so later a dozen of us are seated in a circle of orange plastic chairs in a small room. In fact, this session is called Circle. A brown curtain is drawn over the only window, and the walls are bare, as if to make sure we have nothing to look at except each other. Half the kids are males from my family. The other half are females from the Truth family. As far as I know, this is the only time males and females are allowed to mix at Lake Harmony.
    The girl with the black hair and clear blue eyes is in this group. She is still wearing that sign around her neck.
    I slowly rise to my feet. Various parts of my body still hurt, and my back is stiff. “It was extremely unpleasant, sir.” My voice sounds strange to me. This is the first time I’ve spoken in I don’t know how many days.
    â€œI don’t care what you
thought
of it,” Joe snaps. “I asked what you
learned
from it.”
    What did I learn from TI? That it takes about four days for a caffeine headache to finally go away. That a foot or a hand can go numb and tingly for no apparent reason other than lack of use. That when too many thoughts press in on you, one way to escape is to focus all your attention on each individual breath.
    â€œI learned that it’s really uncomfortable to lie facedown on the floor for a week, sir.”
    Around the room kids snigger. Most of them are still faces without names.
    Joe’s nose twitches, though his eyes aren’t as puffyor red as before. “What else did you learn?” he asks.
    â€œI don’t know, sir.”
    â€œYou don’t know?” Joe repeats, taunting. “I thought you were a smart guy, Garrett. How can you not know?”
    â€œI don’t know what you want me to say,