“We were just having a very educational conversation with your son,” Wyler said, his voice echoing off the metal roof.

At the table just to Wyler’s right, the gray-bearded man in the dark green flannel shirt shifted in his folding chair.

Master Chief Harlan Vance sat behind the Maritime Heritage Museum display, his big right hand lying flat on the polished oak tabletop.

He didn’t blink.

His eyes stayed fixed on the gold officer’s rank pins on Wyler’s collar.

Wyler didn’t look back at Vance.

He kept his whole attention on me as I closed the gap between us.