proudly present to you Monson Grey! Monson, why don't you tell us a bit about yourself? Where you come from, where you grew up, what’s happened to you in the last few months."
There was more clapping as the dean removed himself from the spotlight. Monson faced the crowd he could not see, his throat going dry. He didn't know what to do. He couldn't remember his past. What was he supposed to say?
The clapping lasted another thirty seconds and then died down in a fairly dramatic fashion, or maybe it just felt that way because of Monson's current predicament. The glare of the spotlight beat down on him. He managed to get out a few words. "Umm . . . yeah, well, like the dean said, I'm Monson Grey."
Monson froze. His voice failed him and his palms started to sweat. What the heck was he supposed to talk about? Maybe just some general information.
"I grew up here in Washington, in the central part, near Moses Lake. I was homeschooled . . . and . . . I like history."
Monson swallowed hard. That was about all he knew. He didn't know what else to say. Monson attempted to choke out another phrase. "I—I'm . . . happy to . . . to be here. Um . . . thank you."
Monson started to move away from the podium. An arm was around him before he could take more than half a step out. The dean was back at his side. "Thank you, Mr. Grey. Are there any questions for our new Horum Vir ?"
An outbreak of movement and whispering among the audience made Monson wonder what they were all so worked up about. Monson was able to catch some of the chatter.
"Grey, as in him , as in the Grey?'
"Ask him what happened."
"Are you insane? No way! You ask him."
A woman's voice carried over the others, who were whispering. "Mr. Grey, yes, Mr. Grey. I'm Carol Williams. Just wanted to ask you a quick question: As the sole survivor of Baroty's Bridge, can you tell us what happened that day?"
Monson suddenly lost his ability to inhale, yet he didn't feel surprised by the question. That is what people really wanted to know. It was probably even the reason for the last-minute reception. It happened only a few months ago, and the investigation was still ongoing. Of course it was still ongoing; it was the worst attack in American history and they had no idea who did it.
Monson didn't say anything, or rather, was unable to say anything. It was unnaturally silent in the hall, like the audience was holding its collective breath. Monson looked skyward, only to see shadows. A flicker of movement caught his eye. The shadow — it moved. Monson tried to find the source. No luck; the lights were too bright.
"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen."
Monson looked to his left, hoping to see an ally, someone, anyone who might rescue him from this. Mr. Gatt stood calmly at his side; he was already addressing Ms. Williams.
"Ms. Williams, was it? I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but the Department of Homeland Security has specifically forbidden Monson from discussing the matter. National security, you understand. Besides, you would not want to put our young Horum Vir on the spot like that. It makes it appear that you have some kind of ulterior motive.
Monson had difficulty seeing Ms. Williams, but the note of discomfort in her voice was conspicuous. "Just curious! We're all so interested to get to know him as a representative of our school."
"Oh, well, as you can see, the caterers are passing out gift baskets now. An information packet has been included on Mr. Grey. Now, I am sure you are all dying to come and get to know Mr. Grey better, so we'll move along with the greeting portion of the evening. Please form a line at the base of the stage."
"Wait a moment," Dean Dayton tried to whisper. "Markin, what are you doing? Wait, I still—"
Mr. Gatt ignored the dean and steered Monson to a large stool. The dean stared after them, then, with a flash of anger, stormed off. The lights dimmed and Monson rubbed at his eyes. He could finally see properly. He did not like
There was more clapping as the dean removed himself from the spotlight. Monson faced the crowd he could not see, his throat going dry. He didn't know what to do. He couldn't remember his past. What was he supposed to say?
The clapping lasted another thirty seconds and then died down in a fairly dramatic fashion, or maybe it just felt that way because of Monson's current predicament. The glare of the spotlight beat down on him. He managed to get out a few words. "Umm . . . yeah, well, like the dean said, I'm Monson Grey."
Monson froze. His voice failed him and his palms started to sweat. What the heck was he supposed to talk about? Maybe just some general information.
"I grew up here in Washington, in the central part, near Moses Lake. I was homeschooled . . . and . . . I like history."
Monson swallowed hard. That was about all he knew. He didn't know what else to say. Monson attempted to choke out another phrase. "I—I'm . . . happy to . . . to be here. Um . . . thank you."
Monson started to move away from the podium. An arm was around him before he could take more than half a step out. The dean was back at his side. "Thank you, Mr. Grey. Are there any questions for our new Horum Vir ?"
An outbreak of movement and whispering among the audience made Monson wonder what they were all so worked up about. Monson was able to catch some of the chatter.
"Grey, as in him , as in the Grey?'
"Ask him what happened."
"Are you insane? No way! You ask him."
A woman's voice carried over the others, who were whispering. "Mr. Grey, yes, Mr. Grey. I'm Carol Williams. Just wanted to ask you a quick question: As the sole survivor of Baroty's Bridge, can you tell us what happened that day?"
Monson suddenly lost his ability to inhale, yet he didn't feel surprised by the question. That is what people really wanted to know. It was probably even the reason for the last-minute reception. It happened only a few months ago, and the investigation was still ongoing. Of course it was still ongoing; it was the worst attack in American history and they had no idea who did it.
Monson didn't say anything, or rather, was unable to say anything. It was unnaturally silent in the hall, like the audience was holding its collective breath. Monson looked skyward, only to see shadows. A flicker of movement caught his eye. The shadow — it moved. Monson tried to find the source. No luck; the lights were too bright.
"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen."
Monson looked to his left, hoping to see an ally, someone, anyone who might rescue him from this. Mr. Gatt stood calmly at his side; he was already addressing Ms. Williams.
"Ms. Williams, was it? I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but the Department of Homeland Security has specifically forbidden Monson from discussing the matter. National security, you understand. Besides, you would not want to put our young Horum Vir on the spot like that. It makes it appear that you have some kind of ulterior motive.
Monson had difficulty seeing Ms. Williams, but the note of discomfort in her voice was conspicuous. "Just curious! We're all so interested to get to know him as a representative of our school."
"Oh, well, as you can see, the caterers are passing out gift baskets now. An information packet has been included on Mr. Grey. Now, I am sure you are all dying to come and get to know Mr. Grey better, so we'll move along with the greeting portion of the evening. Please form a line at the base of the stage."
"Wait a moment," Dean Dayton tried to whisper. "Markin, what are you doing? Wait, I still—"
Mr. Gatt ignored the dean and steered Monson to a large stool. The dean stared after them, then, with a flash of anger, stormed off. The lights dimmed and Monson rubbed at his eyes. He could finally see properly. He did not like
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