I wasn’t sure whether he saw me, but I didn’t have time to worry as I dashed to reach the exit before the beige-shirt guy could react. When the door closed behind me, I exhaled loudly.

The outside guard booth was manned by two different soldiers now, and I hoped they’d be as easygoing as the first two.

“Name?” the taller, Asian one demanded.

“Derek Kingsley. I was meeting Hazel Rhodes for a journalism project. I’m just going to grab my bike and leave.”

That was a calculated risk, but I’d spotted my bike inside the gate from the last time I was there, and I wanted it back.

“One second,” the Asian soldier said, gesturing to the other soldier, a pug-nosed short blond guy.

“I’m sorry, but I’m late for marching band!” I announced as I darted past the guards toward my bike.

“Halt!” the short guy shouted, which answered my long-standing question of “Does anyone actually say ‘Halt!’ anymore?” I pretended not to hear him, put my hands on the bike’s handlebars, and pushed it toward the parking lot.

“I said, ‘Stop!’” the guy barked like he meant it, so I obeyed, still holding on to my bike.

“No, you said, ‘Halt’!” I replied as I turned to discover that the tall Asian guy had a rifle aimed at my chest. “Whoa, I didn’t realize that retrieving one’s own bike was grounds for shooting a teenager.”

“Shut it,” the tall guy ordered. His diminutive partner was running his finger down the screen of a mini iPad. I cocked my chin back, trying to get a glimpse of what he was seeing.

“Stay where you are,” the pug-nosed guy commanded, not looking up from his search.

I evaluated my options, then took a step toward them with the bike. “Hey, is there a way I could get a message to my dad? He works inside, but I couldn’t reach him.”

The soldiers looked at each other and then back at me. “The staff are working and have no time for visitors. It’s against protocol,” the short one said.

“I get it,” I said, holding up my hands and trying to look young and sad, “but I’m just a kid, and my mom was hurt in that explosion a few days ago, and I really wanted to talk to him.” I leaned my bike against the open door of the guards’ booth, realizing that the talk-to-my-dad gambit and the Derek Kingsley gambit weren’t exactly compatible. “Let me see if I can find my ID.” I shuffled through my pockets, looking for something—anything—I could use as a weapon.

“It’s against protocol,” the guard with the iPad repeated. He looked up at the tall one. “Clear. No Derek Kingsley.” He stepped one foot into the guards’ booth and placed the small tablet on a small table.

The tall guy gestured to the road. “Just take your bicycle and go.”

I was about to object, then realized I should appreciate this opportunity to escape.