A pair of large scissors rested beside a box of cable ties.
He reached for them.
For a moment, I honestly did not understand why.
Then he opened the blades.
“Wait.”
He brought them toward my chest.
“What are you doing?”
“This fake pass isn’t getting used again.”
“It isn’t fake.”
Snip.
The sound was surprisingly loud.
The rigid plastic sleeve cracked between the blades.
One side split.
Before I could react, Keller cut again.
Snip.
The bottom portion broke away and dropped to the tile.
Then another clear piece fell beside it.
The sound of plastic bouncing against the floor seemed to echo through the hall.
Keller yanked the severed upper section from the lanyard.
“There.”
He tossed it down.
“You’re done.”
I looked at the pieces near my shoes.
For a few seconds, I said nothing.
I think I was too stunned to speak.
My hands were still raised.
My heart was pounding so hard that I could feel it in my throat.
But Keller had made one mistake.
The clear protective sleeve had been cut.
The credential itself had not.
The actual card was made from thick laminated stock and attached separately to a small metal clip beneath the lanyard clasp.
When the sleeve fell away, the card remained hanging from my shirt.
And now there was nothing covering it.
Under the white exhibition lights, the gold foil of the state seal reflected brightly.
STATE DEPARTMENT OF EDUCATION.
Beneath it were two words in bold black letters.
STUDENT PRESENTER.
My photograph sat directly beside them.
So did my full name.
So did my school.
So did my presentation number.
Keller never looked down.
He raised the scissors again, keeping the blades closed this time, and pointed them toward the lobby.
“Out.”
I stared at him.
“Are you going to read the badge now?”
“I said out.”
“It says presenter.”
“You have five seconds before I call another officer.”
“The QR code is still visible.”
“One.”
“You can scan it.”
“Two.”
“My name is on the project.”
“Three.”
Behind him, the tall oak doors at the side of the exhibition hall clicked.
Neither of us noticed at first.
Then they swung open.
A group of six people entered.
The man in front was Dr. Thomas Whitaker, chairman of the State Board of Education.
I recognized him immediately because his photograph had been included in every orientation packet sent to the finalists.
He was sixty-three, silver-haired, tall, and carried himself with the kind of calm confidence that comes from spending decades walking into rooms where people already know who you are.
He wore a charcoal suit and a deep blue tie.
Under his left arm was a thick cream-colored program booklet embossed with the same gold state seal that was hanging from my chest.
Dr. Whitaker had been scheduled to tour the finalist exhibits before the public opening.
According to the schedule, he would start with the engineering category.
My category.
And according to the program, my demonstration was first.
Keller still had the scissors pointed toward the doors when Dr. Whitaker walked in.
The chairman took three steps.
Then stopped.
His eyes moved first to Keller.
Then to me.
Then to the pieces of clear plastic scattered across the tile.
Finally, he looked at the credential hanging from my shirt.
Nobody spoke.
Dr. Whitaker slowly shifted the program booklet under his arm.
He looked down at its cover.
Then opened it.
Keller lowered the scissors a few inches.
“Good morning, sir,” he said, suddenly changing his tone.
Dr. Whitaker did not answer.
He turned two pages.
His finger moved down a printed list.
Then he looked directly at me.
“Daniel Mercer?”
“Yes, sir.”
His eyes went back to the severed badge holder.
“What happened to your credential?”
Keller answered before I could.
“Small security issue, sir. I caught this young man interfering with one of the exhibits before opening.”
The chairman stared at him.
“Interfering with an exhibit.”
“Yes, sir.”
Keller sounded more confident now.
“He claimed to be a participant, but I was removing him from the hall.”
Dr. Whitaker looked at me again.
Then he looked at the project behind me.
He walked past Keller.
Straight to the poster board.
He read the title.
Then the name underneath.
DANIEL MERCER.
When he turned around, his expression had changed.
Not dramatically.
He did not shout.
In some ways, that made it worse.
“Mr. Keller,” he said quietly.
The guard straightened.
“Yes, sir?”
“Which exhibit was Mr. Mercer interfering with?”
Keller pointed toward my equipment.
“This one.”
Dr. Whitaker nodded.
“And whose name is printed at the top of that display?”
For the first time since confronting me, Keller actually looked.
His eyes traveled upward.
Then stopped.
I watched his face.
The color changed almost immediately.
His mouth opened.
Nothing came out.