“He’s standing at the center Navy booth,” Valerie said, her voice dropping lower.

“He’s got the black corded microphone in his hand.

Principal Thorne tried to step in, but Wyler told her he was enforcing official Navy public affairs standards for school speakers.”

“Wait here in the hall for sixty seconds, Kenneth,” I said.

Valerie reached out and caught the cuff of my blue-gray work shirt with two fingers.

“Sarah, you’ve got beach mud on your sleeves, and your boots are caked with dune grit.

Wyler’s in his full white service dress with polished brass.