Every word is under scrutiny. The delivery has to be just so, lives depend on it. I can tell he's nervous, sweat on his brow, thinking too hard about all of it. The quill is static on the parchment, his fingers are trembling. He looks to me for encouragement and then lets out a sigh with a hand to his forehead. I have nothing to offer him. Even if I wanted to help, I couldn't. It's not permitted. He has one chance. I know the immense pressure he's feeling. He pulls his shoulders back and starts the scrawl of words. He's tapped the tree and it's slow, but I can tell the sugar is there. He has one chance, but now that he's begun writing he sees that it's an opportunity. His script has picked up speed and his face now carries more hope than despair. I smile. I am, after all, secretly rooting for him. Minutes pass and paragraphs become pages. He dips into the inkwell and glances in my direction with curious eyes, then he smiles.

"Do nine men interpret?"   "Nine men." I nod.