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Sing, cries Jonah, softly, as though the word were his last. He is heaving and rolling inside, like a shipful of men rowing for shore, but thwarted, ever thwarted, by the mighty tempest in the sea. The ship, he feels, his mind, may crack. What then? Would he sink down the fathoms, rest among the broken coral and lost pearls of his sanity?�?Dream of mermaids’ solace, and barely hearken, when the hour arrived, the watery tolling of his death? The storm inside him bulges, overstuffed. It cannot but break into the world, wheeze through cracks into his lungs, which spasm as if to expel sand or sea-spray. He coughs several times. He wishes Dear God again for some outlet, some soothing poem to chant, or a song of ancient, charming powers to sing. Sing, he whispers.He has spoken unguardedly, too loudly, carried off by the currents. He sees this when the students in front of him shift in their desks and turn their heads. They have heard the word quite clearly. They greet it not, as one might expect of students, with confused silence. Rather, a mischievous opening of the air proceeds from the halos of their polished hair. They are ambitious. They are prepared, Jonah sees, with butterfly nets to swoop on any words which might flutter from his mouth.