The man leaned down to his seven-year-old. “Are you sure this will work?” he asked. His son nodded encouragingly.

The man cleared his throat. “I, uh…well…”

“Why don’t you tell the class your name?” whispered the teacher, pursing her lips as if concealing a titter.

“Oh, right. Im, um, Mr. Davidson, Kevin’s father…I work…in an office.” He looked down at his son, who gave him a thumbs up.

“And exactly where is this office?” asked the teacher.

“Oh, er…it’s in Virginia.”

The teacher sighed, wondering how such a bright second grader got this clod for a father. “Any questions?” she asked.

A chubby girl raised her hand. “What does he do in da office?”

“I work,” replied Mr. Davidson nervously. He wasn’t sure, but he thought he heard the girl mutter “idiot.”

“All right, class, next parent,” said the teacher hurriedly, ushering Mr. Davidson out of the room.

In the hall, he exhaled and wondered what CIA agent in his right mind would go to his child’s career day.