At school they called Shayden “different.” By Friday, someone wrote it across his backpack in marker. Shayden didn’t wait for the bus. He walked two streets over and knocked on the one door he’d always been told to avoid—the old veteran everyone called “mean.”
The door opened. Gray beard. Hard eyes. Shayden swallowed and said, “Sir… do you still have your flag?” The veteran stared a beat too long. “Why?” Shayden unzipped his backpack, pulled out the crumpled note, and held it up.
It read:
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