I could see surprisingly little military presence at the plant. A twelve-foot-high chain-link fence, topped with razor wire, surrounded the facility, but that had been there as long as I could remember. At a guard shack by the fence gate, two soldiers stood talking.

The more places I looked, the more security cameras I saw—atop the fence, the guard tower, the streetlight …

I fished in my pocket for my headlamp, which I’d brought because I assumed I’d need it to see the trail. Once I got going on my bike and realized I could see everything amazingly well, I’d stuffed it into my shorts. Now I didn’t want to sneak up on the guards; I wanted them to think I was an everyday teenager wanting to talk to his dad. So here I was, all lit up. Don’t shoot, please.

I took a deep breath and walked my bike down a wide trail that led to the road.

Almost immediately the two men at the gate turned, one putting his hand on—was it a pistol or a radio? The other soldier picked up his rifle. He didn’t point it at me but was ready to. The light was directly above them, and their helmets cast shadows on their faces.

“Stop!” one of them ordered. “State your name.”

“I’m Jordan Conners,” I said, stopping twenty feet from them, leaning my bike against my legs and raising my hands in the most nonthreatening way possible. I hoped they didn’t think my being black represented a threat in itself. “I need to talk to my dad, Jermaine Conners. He’s an engineer. It’s an emergency.”

“What is the nature of this emergency?” the man with the rifle asked. He had an odd, abrupt way of speaking that reminded me of someone, but I couldn’t remember who. I could see from his rank insignia that he was a private first class. The other guy, older and stockier, was a corporal.

“Family matters,” I said.

“Elaborate.”

“Our house burned down in an explosion yesterday. My mother and brother were injured and helicoptered away. I was left alone and need to tell him.” I was laying it on thick, but this all was true. Being an abandoned, newly homeless kid should lift me past the threshold of getting to talk to my dad.

The older guy stared at me as if he didn’t believe me. Then he got on his radio: “Thunder Central, Thunder Central, this is Thunder Two. Over.”

There was a pause. “Thunder Two, this is Thunder Central. Go ahead. Over.”

“We have a kid here who wishes to see his father. He reports there have been injuries in the family. Over.”

Pause. “Name of child and father? Over.”

The corporal relayed the names.

“Stand by,” the radio squawked. “Over.”

We stood there in silence, me by my bike with my hands still in the air, the private with both hands on his gun, the corporal holding the radio in his left hand while he rested his right on his sidearm. It was as if we were all posing for a photo—or painting—with none of us looking at one another.