The summer of 2001 was hot, lonely, and cruel for Marcus Ryker.

He did meet for several months with his pastor and separately with a counselor his pastor recommended. Neither of them believed Marcus was suffering from PTSD or any other side effects from the shooting. It had been a brutal and ugly matter, to be sure. But it had been justified, and neither man saw it negatively affecting Marcus’s emotions or behavior. Marcus asked them to put their thoughts in writing. They did, and Marcus mailed both letters to Mr. Garcia. A week later, he received a brief, typed reply.

Dear Marcus —I have received and read both letters. Thank you for your thoughtfulness in sending them to me. I wish you well in your senior year and look forward to discussing this matter with you again upon your graduation. Until then, I would be grateful if you would continue to honor my wishes. Sincerely, Javier Garcia, Attorney-at-Law

In August, Marcus returned to the UNC Greeley campus for his senior year as a criminal justice major, only to find out that Elena had transferred to the University of Denver. Her friends said her father had insisted. Marcus couldn’t believe she hadn’t even let him know.

At the gym one night, one of the guys he lived with asked what he was planning to do when he graduated. A few months ago, he had been so certain —graduate, marry Elena, become a police officer somewhere in Colorado, hopefully close to home. Now he was all by himself and drifting.

“I want to do something special with my life, something important,” Marcus said. “I believe God gave me the ability and willingness to take big risks, but why? It can’t just be for me. It has to be for something bigger. But the truth is, I have no idea what.”

Less than a month later, Marcus woke up early on a Tuesday morning and went for a run, then came back to the apartment he was sharing with several guys in the same program. He was prepping for his favorite class, History 388 —Imperial Russia from 1700 to 1917, and had barely finished showering when one of his roommates pounded on the bathroom door and insisted he come to the living room immediately. Marcus dried off, threw on jeans and a T-shirt, and joined everyone just in time to see a jumbo jet fly into the South Tower of the World Trade Center. Together they stood and watched in shock as both towers collapsed before their eyes. Then they heard that another plane had already crashed into the Pentagon.

Marcus slowly sat down. He wasn’t going to class. None of them were. He called Elena’s mobile phone. She didn’t answer. He texted her, saying he didn’t mean to violate her father’s instructions but just wanted to make sure she was all right. Then he called his mom. She, too, was watching the coverage on television. They took a moment to pray for the nation and for the president.

That night, Marcus and his roommates remained huddled around the television. They watched the commander in chief address the nation.

“The search is under way for those who are behind these evil acts,” the president promised. “I’ve directed the full resources of our intelligence and law enforcement communities to find those responsible and to bring them to justice.”

Marcus found himself moved by how the president closed his address.

“Tonight I ask for your prayers for all those who grieve, for the children whose worlds have been shattered, for all whose sense of safety and security has been threatened. And I pray they will be comforted by a power greater than any of us, spoken through the ages in Psalm 23: ‘Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I fear no evil, for you are with me.’ This is a day when all Americans from every walk of life unite in our resolve for justice and peace. America has stood down enemies before, and we will do so this time. None of us will ever forget this day, yet we go forward to defend freedom and all that is good and just in our world. Thank you. Good night, and God bless America.”

The following morning, Marcus again woke early. Again he went out for a run, and when he had showered and dressed and eaten some breakfast, he fished out a phone book from the front closet of the apartment, looked up the nearest Marine recruiting station, and dialed. It was busy. Ten minutes later, he tried a second time. It was still busy, and it remained so for the next hour. So Marcus grabbed his keys, jumped in his Mustang, and drove down to the station. It was a mob scene. Young men were lined up around the building and down the block. Marcus parked and got in line. It took him nearly four hours to get inside, fill out a stack of forms, and meet with someone in person.

“I want to enlist,” he said without emotion. “How soon can I start?”

The recruiter was impressed with the fact that Marcus was nearly done with college and tried to persuade him to become an officer. Marcus told him he didn’t want a career. He just wanted to defend his country, kick some terrorist tail, and get back home to start a family.

The Marine finally relented. On one issue, however, he was adamant. Marcus needed to graduate. There was no point in throwing away all the time and money he and his mother had invested in his education by dropping out now. Marcus could enlist today, but he would not leave for basic training until May, the day after he graduated.

Marcus looked at his phone. It had been twenty-four hours, and he still hadn’t heard back from Elena. If she was done with him, it was time to move on. He picked up a pen and signed on the dotted line, then drove back to campus and went to class.