I reached into my pocket and put three dollars on the laminate counter for his lunch milk.

“Don’t leave your poster on the bus,” I added, setting down his plate.

He grabbed his backpack by the top loop before his fork had even touched the eggs.

At nine o’clock the air in the explosive ordnance disposal workshop at Joint Expeditionary Base Little Creek smelled of thick grease, salty Atlantic air and wet rubber.

Kenneth Oakes rapped a three-quarter-inch wrench on the steel toe of his work boot while we tested the battery leads on the ground-penetrating radar unit.

“Range control logged a shell that washed up on Sandbridge Beach this morning,” Kenneth said.

“An old World War Two practice bomb shell uncovered near the north dunes.”

“Is the fuse housing intact?” I asked.

“Rusted solid,” Kenneth said, dropping the heavy wrench back on the steel workbench.

“Looks like a ninety-pound training unit from forty-five.

I paid the cobbler forty-two dollars to resole my work boots last month just so I could haul gear through that sand.”

“We’ll do a perimeter sweep Wednesday morning,” I said.

The black wall phone by the main bay door rang twice, cutting over the hum of the air compressor.

I wiped my hands on a shop rag and lifted the receiver.