It’s JP, of course, who’s coming up to me during writing time at the end of class, and I’ve learned by now that it can be for only one of three reasons: a) to show me his incomplete work and beg for help; b) to tell me about his missing work and beg for time to complete it; c) to attempt to make one of those jokes that demonstrates, once again, that there is an unusually decimated circuit between his head and his mouth.

But every once in awhile something astonishingly beautiful opens up in him, like a flower in flash photography.

“In this chapter,” reads the writing prompt I have created, “Haven Peck says his ‘mission’ is the work of slaughtering pigs– something that must be done, no matter how hard it is. What do you think your mission in life is?”

He hands it to me, points to his one sentence, and sits down fast, not making eye contact. I glance at the lack of development and sigh inwardly. Then I actually see what he has put down.

“My mission is to find my mission,” he has written.