“So I’m going to have to ask you to escort Caleb to the library,” Dr. Prentiss said. “There are refreshments there. Juice. Muffins. He’ll be very comfortable.”
He glanced at the stage.
“Our speaker is preparing to begin,” he said. “And frankly, Mr. Halloran, your uniform is—”
He paused. Choosing his words.
“—a bit of a visual distraction,” he said.
I looked at him for a long moment.
Then I looked around the room.
At the tables of men in expensive suits. At their sons in navy blazers.
Several of the men refused to meet my gaze. They looked down at their plates. At their coffee cups. At their phones.
One or two of them looked visibly ashamed.
There was one man at a table near us. Mid-forties. A gray suit. A boy about Caleb’s age sitting beside him.
He was looking at my ribbons. At the top row. At the blue one with the white stripe.
