By the end of that day, everyone in the FWS knew of his misadventure and was laughing about how he threw up at the police station. He was wounded, and a wounded man has little chance in the FWS. Competition is brutal. He knew what was ahead: students and instructors alike would treat him like a pariah. His fellow students would offer no help and instructors would go out of their way to see that he busted out. There was little chance that he would wear the patch, much less wear the black-and-gold checkerboard scarf. What could he do? Who could help him? There was only one person.
