Margaret cannot speak, she can only nod.
Wayne walks over to the projector and touches it.
—Have you been using it every Friday?
Margaret finally manages to say:
—The children eagerly await it all week.
Wayne turns to the students: 12 pairs of eyes fixed on him; some scared, some excited, all incredulous.
—I received your letter, from all of you. Thank you for what you wrote. It meant a lot.
A small voice from the front row:
—Did you read my sentence?
Wayne looks. A girl, maybe seven. Blonde braids. Sarah.
—Yes, I read it. You said I’m the bravest cowboy. It’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.
Sarah blushes. She smiles.
Wayne spends the next three hours with them: answering questions, signing autographs on notebook paper, telling stories about filming, showing them how to pull off a scene, how to fall without getting hurt, how to make a shootout look real. He asks them what they’ve learned from his movies.
They respond:
—Courage, honor, standing up for what is right, never giving up, helping those weaker than you.
Wayne listens. He really listens. These kids understand him. They grasped the lessons he was trying to put in every movie, even when he didn’t know that’s what he was doing.
Near the end of the afternoon, a boy raises his hand. Small, dark hair, serious face. Tommy, 8 years old.
—Sr. Wayne…
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