The admiral’s voice carried to every corner of the gymnasium. “Gentlemen, in 1970, a twenty-year-old seaman apprentice froze beside a burning fuel line, and a chief petty officer dragged him clear, took the burns himself, and never told a soul.” He touched his chest. “That seaman was me. The man who saved my life is standing in this room, and you were about to send his grandson to the library.”

Dr. Whitmore sank into the nearest chair. But the admiral was not finished. He drew a sealed envelope from inside his jacket and knelt in front of Mason. “Son, I have carried this for seven years, waiting for the right room.” Mason’s fingers shook as he took it. On the front, in his father’s handwriting, was one line: For Mason, when he is old enough to ask why.