My right thumb rubbed the cool brass buckle of my service uniform belt.

“That’s my son’s essay, Lieutenant,” I said.

Wyler didn’t flinch or look at all surprised to find me there.

He laid the essay flat on the wooden tabletop, right next to a portable PA microphone with a long black coiled cord.

“Then you should have fixed his wording before he turned it in to his homeroom teacher, Master Chief,” Wyler said.

“Military precision matters when you’re presenting official records to three hundred middle schoolers.”