Lieutenant Easton Wyler stood without a word to say in front of three hundred students.

Principal Thorne took the black microphone from Wyler’s fingers.

She held her silver ballpoint pen between both thumbs, her eyes on the rows of silent sixth graders in the bleachers.

She turned to me and held out the black cord.

“Master Chief Merrick,” she said over the PA.

“The floor is all yours.”

I took hold of the heavy metal handle.

The gym was so quiet I could hear the big air handlers humming up in the steel rafters.