A spotlight hit the center of the stage.

“Go on, Michael,” Helen urged, her hand reaching out to touch his arm. “Go up there. Show them who you are.”

Michael looked at her hand as if it were a spider.

He slowly pulled his arm away.

“Michael,” Helen whispered, her voice laced with panic. “Do not do this.”

Michael looked at me.

There was no anger in his eyes, only a deep, hollow shame.

“I didn’t know, Emerson,” he said. “I swear to God, I didn’t know.”

“I know,” I said.

But the damage was already done.

The announcer spoke into the microphone.

“First, we recognize Lieutenant Commander Michael Rogers for his meritorious service in the Pacific theater.”

The crowd began to applaud.

People turned to look for Michael, their faces smiling in the dim light.

Michael didn’t move toward the stage.

He took a deep breath, his chest rising and falling beneath his white uniform.

Helen grabbed his wrist.

“Michael, walk,” she hissed.

Instead, Michael took a step toward the stage steps, but he didn’t climb them.

He looked at the master of ceremonies, then back at the crowd.