“Yep.”
“Okay.” A pause. “I’ll call the airline.”
That was the whole conversation. No lecture. No big moment. His dad just said he’d call the airline, and Leo ate the rest of the pretzels, and that was Saturday.
The note stayed in the backpack. He hadn’t even told his mom about it until Sunday night, when she asked why he was being so quiet.
She’d read it. Handed it back. Said, “Keep that.”
He already knew.
After the Parking Lot
The bell rang eventually. It had to. There were classes. It was Monday.
The SEALs shook hands with the principal, a quiet man named Gary Fitch who looked like he’d been awake since 5 a.m. preparing for this and also had no idea how to prepare for this. Some of them talked to students. Dennis Pruitt spent about ten minutes with a group of seventh-grade boys who asked him seventeen questions about BUD/S training and whether you really have to hold your breath for two minutes and what the coldest the water gets.
