“So what is the message I’ve come here today to tell you?” Tim asked in a level voice.

“The tall boy in the front row shouted out, “Don’t text and drive!”

“Yeah. And I’m here to let you know that all it takes is one moment of inattention in a moving vehicle and your life can change forever.”

“Did you get punished?” the tall boy asked, leaning forward in his seat.

“Oh, yes.” Tim pulled out the last photo: a family shot of the Seevers family, wearing broad grins, posed in front of a Christmas tree. “I was charged with involuntary manslaughter, and did sixty days at High Desert State Prison in Susanville, California. My lawyers got me a deal with my case judge and Bradley Seever’s parents.”

Tim paused at this point, wishing he’d kept some of the soda. His throat felt tight and dry.

“I have been given five years’ probation. During this time I will travel the country and present my story to middle and high schools, colleges, and social groups. Half of my income from any work I do will go to a foundation in the Seever family’s name.”

“Will you run again?” another boy asked, who was seated next to the tall kid.

“As a convicted felon, my employment options are limited. I probably will never be able to compete for the Olympics again.” The auditorium was hushed, a few kids still crying, others staring back at him with hard flat eyes. Tim took a deep breath.

“Do you understand from my story what you risk by texting while driving?”

Many nodded, but the tall boy raised his hand. “What about your girlfriend? She was the one texting you.”

Thoughts flashed into his mind about what had happened after that fatal encounter. Sam’s lawyers threatening him, telling him not to drag her into the situation, since it “wouldn’t be good for her career.” The e-mail he received just before his processing by California Corrections. She said she’d been advised to stay away from him and hoped he’d understand. The article his sister sent him in jail about how Samantha Meiko was currently dating one of the hunky young British actors featured in a newly released Marvel Comics superheroes film.

“The fault was mine.” Lots of whispering behind hands. “Any questions?” Now his chest was tight, but he attempted a smile of encouragement. Maybe some questions and answers give-and-take would loosen the cramp around his heart.

Silence. It seemed to stretch, and into the quiet Principal Merton shuffled onto the stage, ready to take charge. Yet, it seemed to Tim that the older man’s throat seemed uncharacteristically tight. A whooshing noise started from the back of the stage, and Mrs. Brandon, elbows askew, ran out to grab the microphone. Tim handed it to her silently. She always knew when to throw herself into a situation.

Mrs. Brandon had come to the region years ago with her young physician husband who was working off med school debts by working for the Indian Health Service. Somehow, they’d stayed put, even though most white doctors went on to lucrative practices elsewhere. Mrs. Brandon taught English, and could be counted on to be a bit melodramatic.

Holding the microphone in what seemed like a parody of a rock singer, she called out, “Students! Haven’t we learned something important, here?” She didn’t wait for a response. “Tim has come back from the wide world to tell you about the ultimate way to screw yourself. Something any of us could do.” She glared down into the audience. “Tim didn’t mean to do so, but he KILLED those people. Every night he goes to sleep he has the memory of their faces to live with.”

She placed one hand on her hip, the other still grasped around the microphone. “So, we are not interested, any of us, in getting screwed, right? Seems like that’s already happened to a lot of people, right?” Some ragged shouts sounded from the back. “Because we all are Americans, right? That true, Diné?”

“Yeah!” screamed a majority of the room, fists pumped into the air.

“That right, African Americans?”

“Yeah!” shouted Tim and Ed Beamish, whose dad worked on the local pipeline, their arms waving wildly.

“Anybody else?” Mrs. Brandon bellowed.

“Us Apaches!” shouted a skinny boy wearing Harry Potter round glasses. Laughter all around the auditorium, and those who weren’t Indian threw their arms up.

“Okay,” Mrs. Brandon said. “You think on what it must have cost Tim to come here today and share with you a mistake that has changed this life, and you promise him that you will never, ever do anything like what he did, all right?” She turned and held out the microphone to Tim.

Yet, before he could reach what she offered, the dynamics in the auditorium changed. Rising in almost perfect synchronicity, the audience started to clap, slowly, steadily — as if they were asking for an encore. One by one, the students rose from their seats and roared “We Promise!”

Tim stared helplessly into the woman’s eyes, shocked when her face recovered its usual calm. But her eyes were sparkling and then — she winked at him. Tim knew now he’d been set up and splendidly. Without thought, he threw his arms around her and received a hug, feeling all the time like he’d been thrown a life preserver.

When the boisterous students filed out the room, Tim made his way to one of the back doors where Principal Merton stood talking to Jeff Ketch. His probation officer clouted Tim on the shoulder, “Good job, there.”

“I got some help,” Tim said, still in a daze.

“Maybe here’s some more,” Merton said. “Sam Chee up at Tsaile says you should go see him about coaching this summer. Says the work can be flexible while you’re touring around lecturing.”

“Let’s go outside,” Tim begged, clutching the fragile hope that had suddenly bloomed. “I think I can make it now. I want to go out and look all around, straight ahead — and see nothing but blue sky.”

[Apologies and thanks to Johnny Nash for the ending]