“You have to do this,” said his dad. “Your friend Jennifer said she needs it for the front page. She called Mom three times.”

They were driving to the mall bookstore, where Adam was supposed to have his exclusive interview with the world-famous war reporter, Erik Forrest. It was Adam’s first time out in days, except for school. He’d barely left his room. He just stayed in bed reading anything close by. He read the books Jennifer had given him. He reread all his old Mad magazines and the Dr. Seuss and William Steig picture books he’d loved when he was little. He read every word of the operator’s manuals for his CD player and for the outdoor Ping-Pong table. Anything not to think his own thoughts.

He didn’t want to talk to anybody, let alone a great reporter who’d remind Adam of what a failure he was.

They’d stopped. His dad reached across Adam’s lap and opened the door. “You’ll be fine,” his father said. “Two great reporters exchanging ideas. You’ll have lots to talk about.”

Adam trudged toward the bookstore.

“Adam!” his father called.

He felt a surge — maybe his dad changed his mind.

“You forgot this,” he said, holding up the backpack with the Erik Forrest books.

When Adam reached the section of the bookstore for celebrity author appearances, he got a sick feeling. There was a TV crew, three radio reporters, a couple of people with laptops who seemed like they might be bloggers, and a reporter and photographer from the Citizen-Gazette-Herald-Advertiser. Some exclusive. Adam hated being lied to. Too bad Jennifer wasn’t there; she could have reminded him why this was such a terrific story.

He pulled out his notebook and squeezed between a TV sound person and the photographer.

For a moment, Adam thought he was in the wrong place. The guy they were listening to didn’t look like the man on the book cover hopping off the helicopter. He looked like somebody’s grandfather.

Worse than that, Adam could not believe what he was hearing. The world-famous war reporter was talking about pancakes. He was talking about his book, Someone Help Me: The Pancakes Are Exploding! The cover blurb said it was supposed to be this hilarious account of a war correspondent trying to adjust to becoming a stay-at-home dad.

Of all the things Adam had read in his bedroom that week, Pancakes Are Exploding! was the most boring, worse than the operator’s manual for the CD player.

Chapter after chapter described the world-famous reporter realizing how hard it was being a full-time housewife — getting to the bus stop late, spoiling the laundry by putting in a red tie-dyed shirt. Big deal. Adam’s dad did that every day and his father had a job.

Adam was growing angrier by the minute. Now Mr. World-Famous was telling them the exact story that was in the book about trying to make pancakes for the first time and placing a pitcher on the hot stove by mistake and having it shatter, cutting World-Famous in three places.

“I was hurt worse making pancakes than in any war,” he said, and all the press people howled and so did World-Famous, as if he hadn’t told that story a hundred times.

“So, to be safe,” said Peter Friendly, of Cable News 12, “get out of the kitchen and go to war!”

“Exactly,” said World-Famous, laughing uproariously.

It got worse. A young man and woman from the publisher, with matching khaki pants and yellow button-down shirts, ushered them over to a fake cardboard kitchen display to take photos of Forrest in an apron and paper chef hat.

Nearby was a press table stocked by the publisher with fancy deli sandwiches, cookies, brownies, and bottled water. The news people were wolfing down free food.

Adam had never met any real writers and assumed they’d have a wise aura around their heads. This guy was a clown.

In fact, the whole event felt like a circus. Adam had always believed that Jennifer’s rule about not taking food or anything else from people you were writing about was too strict. But watching these press people — they seemed like pigs, filling bags with food to take home.

Adam couldn’t wait for them to leave. Fortunately, one story seemed to be all they needed. The female assistant took Forrest’s arm and started leading him out.

“Great sound bite,” she said.

“I’m getting good at this,” said Forrest.

“Excuse me,” said Adam. “Hey, excuse me.”

They stopped.

Adam told them his name and newspaper and explained that he had been promised an exclusive interview with Mr. Forrest.

“We just had that fabulous press opportunity,” said the woman. “You could have asked any question.”

“It’s not the same. This says exclusive,” said Adam, showing the e-mail Jennifer gave him.

The woman took it reluctantly. “Oh, this,” she said. “Actually it says local exclusive. That means, at your school, you’re the only paper we invited.”

“The Slash is the only paper at our school,” said Adam. “That’s exclusive nothing.”

“Wait,” said Mr. Forrest. “We promised this young man an exclusive?” The woman rolled her eyes, but she did nod; Adam saw it. “Then we will keep our promise.” They were near the front of the store, and Forrest led Adam to two soft chairs in the literature section.

The woman reminded Forrest that they needed to leave in ten minutes for the next mall, then hurried off.

“It’s Adam, right?” said Forrest. “How can I help you, Adam? You want a story I didn’t tell the rest of the pack? Here’s your exclusive. I was doing a wash —”

“I know,” said Adam. “The red tie-dyed shirt. I read the book.”

Forrest stared at Adam. “You read Pancakes Are Exploding!? My God. No one ever reads the book. What did you think?”

What did he think? The last time Adam spoke truth to power, he’d been flattened by Devillio. And this guy was Mr. World-Famous. Finally Adam said, “It wasn’t that great.”

“Fabulous,” said Forrest. “The only reporter on the twelve-city tour who reads the book, and you hated it.”

“It’s not that I hated it,” said Adam. “It’s like, I didn’t think it was worthy of you.”

Forrest’s face softened. “Ah,” he said, “that is different.”

“My coeditor, Jennifer, gave me a bunch of your books,” Adam continued, “and the war ones — they were amazing. The way you were in the helicopter with that wounded Marine being airlifted out of the fighting. I mean, this was way before I was born, but when I read it, I felt like the soldier just died that second. It’s like I miss him even though I never met him.”

Adam’s eyes had welled up and he was too embarrassed to look at Forrest. But then Forrest blew his nose and Adam noticed that Forrest’s eyes looked moist, too.

“Jesus, Adam,” said Forrest. “How did such a little boy get such an enormous heart? You know how I feel right now?” He got up, walked along the wall of literature, stopped at the Ds, and returned with a book, which he held up for Adam. Charles Dickens’s A Christmas Carol. “Seeing you,” said Forrest, “so young and idealistic and hungry for truth — I feel like I’m Ebenezer Scrooge meeting the ghost of my past self. I’m looking at you, but I feel like I’m looking at the old me.”

He sat down. “What do you want to ask, Adam? You’ve earned your exclusive.”

Adam didn’t know how to say it. He wanted to know how such a great reporter could wind up doing such an unimportant book. He wanted to know it as much for himself as for the story.

“Speak up,” said Forrest. “Now’s no time to get shy. The khaki-pantsers will be back any second. You’ve told me my book stinks. After that, any question should be easy.”

Adam asked how a writer makes sure that he’s doing stuff that matters and not compromising his principles. “It’s not just you, Mr. Forrest — it’s me, too,” Adam said. “I feel like I’ve lost my confidence. Everything I do turns bad lately. I was so sure my investigative story on parents doing their kids’ science projects was good but everyone thought I was a jerk. I feel . . . lost. I just want to feel like a great reporter again. How do you know if you’re any good?”

“Ahhh,” said Forrest. “Tough one. But I can tell you this. There were a dozen newspeople here today, and only one is willing to work hard enough to get it right. Only one is still asking questions. That’s inside of you. It’s your attitude, your energy, the standards you bring to the story.”

Adam was taking notes.

“I don’t meet many great reporters, even at the best papers and magazines. I meet lots of pretty good ones, but very few men and women willing to dig all the way down until they hit truth. Most just want enough facts to fill the space. Your question’s a beaut, but it’s not just your question. The very greatest have asked it, too.” He stood up and walked along the bookshelf. “Stop me anywhere,” he said.

“Now,” said Adam. They were in the Fs. Forrest pulled out two books by William Faulkner. “Nobel Prize–winning novelist,” said Forrest. “Can’t get any greater. Drank himself into a stupor trying to make easy money writing for movies.”

Forrest was walking again.

“Now,” Adam said.

They were at the Ks and Forrest pulled out The Castle by Franz Kafka. “You said you weren’t sure about the science fair story? Kafka wasn’t either. When he died, you know what his orders were? ‘Burn all my books.’ He thought they were trash. Thank God they didn’t listen.” Forrest motioned to the wall of books. “Smart people,” he said. “And still, many got lost. What they thought was good was bad; what they thought was bad was good. But you can’t stop trying.”

“A question,” said Adam. “You know that story about Kafka? Do you think when you die, you’ll have them burn Pancakes Are Exploding!?”

Forrest leaned forward. “Between you and me? I’m going to burn it right after this interview.”

“What I mean is, how could you?” asked Adam.

“Well, the short answer,” said Forrest, “is I got lazy. The more famous I became, the less time I spent reporting and the more time I spent doing cable news shows — Erik Forrest, expert war correspondent.”

“What’s the long answer?” asked Adam.

“Ever been married, Adam?” asked Forrest.

“Um, no.”

“Didn’t think so,” said Forrest. “Like somebody?”

“Not really,” said Adam. “Well, sort of. A little bit.”

“Well, I’ve liked too many somebodies. One day I’m having a drink at a party, and I mention I’m worried my third marriage is going down the toilet, so I’m trying to travel less and help out more around the house. And a sharp young book editor says, ‘Erik Forrest’s next war will be fought on the home front. Erik Forrest is Mr. Mom.’ You know what that is, Adam?”

Adam didn’t.

“High concept,” said Forrest.

“What’s that?” asked Adam.

“It’s basically a book or movie where the only important part is the title,” said Forrest. “You ask why I wrote it? I figured this was going to be the easiest two hundred thousand dollars I ever made.”

“You got two hundred thousand dollars for this?” said Adam, wiggling Pancakes Are Exploding! at Forrest.

“Yes,” said Forrest. “That was the advance. You putting that in your story?”

“Was it off the record?” asked Adam.

“Nah, you can use it,” said Forrest. “Just do me a favor? Send me a copy of whatever you write? I’m dying to see what you make of all this.

“To answer your original question,” Forrest continued, “my prescription for being a great reporter is: First, always keep reporting until you get to the bottom of the story. Dig, dig, dig. Second, never forget that the people you’re interviewing are the story, not you. Third, don’t do cable news shows. And fourth, drink lots of fluids — nonalcoholic are best.”

Adam loved tips. He could see running a sidebar with the main story headlined “Erik Forrest’s Four Tips to Great Reporting.”

The khaki-pantsers were ready to go, but Forrest gave them twenty dollars and told them to find a bar and have a few big pink drinks with fruit sticking out the top. “Just call the next mall and say, ‘This Erik Forrest is a hothead and we’re running late.’ The public loves hothead writers. I promise, when we get there, I’ll tell them all the stories they can stand — I’ll even throw in the one about almost getting arrested for leaving the kids alone, double-parked in the van outside the bank.”

“That one was actually pretty good,” said Adam.

“Oh, met your standards, did it?” said Forrest. “I’m relieved.”

Forrest used the time to ask Adam about the Slash. It was fun for Adam; Forrest really was a great reporter, and he got every story that Adam described right away. Adam mentioned the investigation that got Marris fired as principal; he shared his plan for the science fair story; he told Forrest how they had stopped the basketball hoops from being torn down by the Tremble Zoning Board chairwoman, Mrs. Boland.

“Mrs. Boland,” repeated Forrest. “Any relation to Boland Cable?”

“The same,” said Adam.

“Impressive,” said Forrest. “Be careful. You upset powerful people like the Bolands, they can squeeze you hard. They don’t forget.” Forrest took out his wallet and gave Adam his card. “If I can ever help, you call,” he said. “I mean it.” He got up.

“Mr. Forrest,” said Adam, “this was great. I learned so much. I’ll never forget it.”

“Thanks, Adam,” said Forrest. “Me, too.”

When Adam got home, he went to the computer for the first time in days and wrote to Jennifer. He was afraid he’d get her away message, but she was online.

I’M BACK! he wrote.

How’d it go? she wrote.

No, I mean I’M BACK!

I know, she wrote. Was he good?

You don’t get it, he wrote. I’M BACK! I feel like I’ve busted through a fog I’ve been stuck in ever since that stupid shoveling thing. I’M BACK!

Ohhhhhhh. YOU’RE BACK! Thank heavens. I need you BACK!

She wrote that she’d gotten Phoebe’s story on the three-hundred-year-old tree that the state wanted to cut down and it was awful. She said she’d e-mail him a copy.

Great! he wrote. On the ride home, I figured out my science project. It’ll make a great Spotlight investigation, too. The Devil’s going down!

What a day. He was ready for bed.

But before he put on his away message, Jennifer wrote again: Sweet dreams. Am in my nighty saying nighty-nighty.

Adam laughed out loud. Jennifer really could get a little fruity sometimes.