In her second year she met Mr. Brennan, the English teacher, a man of around forty with black hair going gray at the temples and a tired courtesy that made the students mock him behind his back. He was not charismatic. He was not one of those teachers who change lives with burning speeches. He was the opposite. Quiet, slow, careful with words. One afternoon, when he handed back essays, he left hers on her desk last. At the top he had written in blue ink: You see more than you say. That can become a gift, if you don’t let it turn into poison first.