The 12 students are frozen, staring. Several are speechless. A girl starts to cry. Not from sadness: from being overwhelmed.
Wayne enters. The room is tiny. One large room, 12 desks, a wood-burning stove in the corner, a blackboard, an American flag, and at the back, the projector mounted on a table, with 10 film canisters stacked beside it.
Did you receive everything I sent you?
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: