I explained that I had served as an Army nurse before returning to civilian life and spending thirty-one years caring for children at Burt Elementary School. The photograph had been taken during my service with the medical unit represented by the blue heron. I remembered the soldiers in that picture, the long nights, and the people who had trusted us with their lives. Some had returned home. Others hadn’t. The memorial wall had been created to ensure their names would never be forgotten. Reese stared at the photograph, then looked at the emblem on his own shoulder. His two friends were no longer laughing.

“Ma’am, I didn’t know,” he finally said. I looked at him and replied, “That’s the problem, Sergeant. You didn’t know, and you didn’t care enough to ask.” He apologized, but I wasn’t interested in hearing a quick excuse simply because he’d discovered my history. I told him that respect shouldn’t depend on someone’s rank, age, or achievements. The young private approached my table and quietly apologized for not speaking up earlier. I smiled at her. “You don’t have to be the loudest person in the room to do the right thing,” I told her. Reese lowered his head, and for the first time since approaching me, he had nothing to say.