“Yes, ma’am,” Matty said, pushing his glasses up his nose.

“I wrote forty-two lines.”

At twelve fifteen, two Navy shore patrol officers walked into Principal Thorne’s main office wearing brown leather sidearm belts and crisp white gloves.

They spoke in low, even voices to Lieutenant Wyler, who sat stiffly on the dark vinyl couch beside the school trophy case.

Wyler didn’t look up when one of the shore patrol officers lifted his service cap off the brass peg behind the door.

He got up without a word and walked out between them to the side lot, where a blue Navy administrative sedan sat waiting with the engine running.