Recess ended before they could include him in their game of Twister.

They already had four players. They would add him in the next round, but the bell rang. The upset, excluded child said to his young classmates: I want to bring a gun to school and shoot and kill all of you.

Monica Wilder Brown, a parent of one of those children, received the call that afternoon from the assistant principal about the incident. She and her husband were so concerned they went to the school and met with the principal the same afternoon.

Brown kept wiping away tears during the meeting.

"I'm sorry. This is not like me," she said.

It was a day in this same suburban St. Louis school district more than 30 years ago that changed how safe she could feel at school. She had sat next to him on the bus that morning. He was her friend. They argued about his bag taking up too much space.

In that bag, 14-year-old David Lawler was carrying the gun and ammunition he used at Parkway South Junior High on Jan. 20, 1983. He killed one student, wounded another and then shot and killed himself. Brown remembers the confusion at lunch. She saw reporters swarming around the school through the giant windows.

"It was a pretty terrible day," Brown said. She's blocked out most of it. But this threat against her daughter reopened those old wounds.

How was the school going to keep her daughter safe? She wanted specific answers about how the child would be disciplined. School officials could not give her those answers because of student privacy laws. The child was not in school the next day.

"I feel like he should have been kicked out of the district," Brown said.

Dissatisfied with the response at the school, she called Chelsea Watson, the assistant superintendent of student services. Watson explained that any threat is taken very seriously. School officials consider the child's age, previous discipline history and any disability involved. They investigate the specifics of the situation, have conversations with the student and parents, and try to determine if the child has access to a gun or a plan in place.

"We are seeing students with more emotional issues at school," Watson said. School officials are trained on how to monitor these children, to teach character and coping skills, to create safety plans when any kind of threat is made. When a child returns to school, he may be required to check in and have his belongings searched before the day starts, to talk to a counselor regularly, walk to classes separately, and be monitored at lunch and on the bus.

The school has to abide by disability laws that protect students if their behavior is a manifestation of a disability, she explained. And, neither she nor any school official could share any specifics about another student's history or discipline.

"Oh, how quickly we forget," Brown said to her. "David Lawler."

"Oh, no," Watson said. "I don't forget. I was a student there, too."

They had attended the same school that day.

Brown learned that the child at her daughter's school made another comment to her once he returned. He blamed her and her friends for getting him in trouble. He wanted to talk to them after class, Brown said. She kept her daughter home from school the next day. The other child was out the rest of the week.

"I was afraid," she said. She was trying to figure out whether to transfer her daughter to another school.

Her panic is understandable, especially given the horror she experienced as an adolescent. After watching the news from too many mass shootings like Sandy Hook, Columbine, Virginia Tech and, most recently, a high school near Portland, Oregon, most parents take any rumors or threats seriously. When the children who have lived through these school shootings grow up, how do we expect them to respond if their children are threatened?

And would it make society safer if schools could simply expel any child who makes such a threat? Where would these children go?

In the meantime, Brown is keeping her daughter at the same school, where she believes the school will keep a close eye on her classmate. She worries about what may happen when they go to middle or high school.

A few weeks later, her daughter saw the same classmate falling behind during a race at school. She walked back toward him.

"Do you want me to walk with you?" she asked the boy whose words had rattled her mother's world.

The child held up his hand to her, she told her mom, as if to say, 'I can't talk to you.'

So often on a lunch date with a friend or loved one, as soon as we are seated, we cradle the other object of our affection in our hands and painstakingly lay it down next to our plate.

The gesture may provoke a quick, guilty explanation -- work or kids are the usual culprits. We know it's an intrusion, but a necessary evil. We certainly won't answer to chitchat with just anyone. We will apologize if we need to be diverted, at all, by someone with needs more pressing than our present company.

Manners, you know.

And when we manage to abstain from casting a wayward eye for the entirety of a meal, when we refuse to be lured away despite being beckoned, we may feel a muted sense of pride. It is a modern accomplishment to pay undivided attention to a single person for an entire hour (or longer!). There are plenty who have not managed this feat in some time.

But before we get too pleased with ourselves, consider that the mere presence of the phone during the conversation lessens the experience. Not the annoying interruption by an urgent call, or the reply to a text or the sneaked check of Instagram -- according to new research, the mere presence of a mobile device visible to both parties changes the nature of the social interaction.

Shalini Misra, lead author of a 2014 study published in the journal Environment and Behavior, examined the smartphone effect on the quality of social interactions.

The researchers designed a study in which they approached 100 pairs entering coffee shops, and asked if they wanted to participate in a 10-minute study about conversations. The two participants were assigned to have either a casual conversation on the topic of plastic holiday trees or a meaningful conversation about important events in their lives from the past year.

The participants were unaware they were being watched during the conversation, and their verbal and nonverbal interactions noted. Afterward, they answered a survey about how empathetic and connected they felt toward the other person and their pre-existing level of closeness.

The experiment found that people who placed a mobile device on the table during the conversation had lower levels of connectedness and empathy toward the conversation partner. Both people in the pair experienced less connectedness. People who reported being closer to one another were more disrupted by the presence of the cellphone than those with a more casual relationship. The topic of the conversation, whether superficial or deep, did not have any significant impact on the results.

Misra, an assistant professor in the School of Public and International Affairs at Virginia Tech University, says the modern mobile device is a symbol of our social networks and contacts. In this digital age, we are constantly in a "poly-conscious" state, she said, in which the person in front of us does not necessarily take precedence over the contacts to whom we are digitally connected.

"A few years ago, people who were in front of you took your attention, as opposed to those who were far away," she said. But nowadays, "all relationships are flattened."

While it may be surprising that one does not actually need to use a mobile device for its presence to be disruptive, it's less surprising that the closer the relationship, the more disrupted the conversation by the presence of a phone.

"We are socialized to expect focused attention from the people we care about the most," Misra said. Any parent who has tried to communicate with a child enraptured by a mobile device has felt that frustration. Perhaps many children have felt the same sense of playing second-fiddle when a parent is easily distracted by the device in his or her hand.

"Refrain from the constant urge to be plugged into the flow of information if you really want empathy" from your interactions, Misra advised.

After all, it can feel a little terrible to compete with an inanimate object, a symbol of everything and everyone more compelling than us.

It feels even worse to lose.

When Tyler Frank, 37, quit a six-figure job two years ago, he wanted more than a career change. He had that uneasy sense that there was more to life.

He had worked for a decade as an attorney in the corporate department of Armstrong Teasdale. His work focused on mergers and acquisitions. Much of his life revolved around his work. When a client emails you at 11 p.m., he explained, you get up and go to the office.

It wasn't that he disliked his work, but he wasn't exactly fulfilled, either. He and a girlfriend had just broken up. He felt out of shape and stuck in a rut.

"Days were dripping off the calendar and time was going by, but I didn't feel like I was really developing or growing," he said.

He decided to join his father as a lawyer for the family business, a St. Louis mortgage company. But before he jumped back into his career, he took a month off to travel and do things he had only dreamed of: Climb Mount Kilimanjaro in Tanzania, go on a safari in the Serengeti, camp for two weeks on an expedition in the Galapagos Islands.

The experiences forced him out of his comfort zone. They also ignited a passion for adventure and a desire to push himself. On a whim, he signed up for the St. Louis Rock 'n' Roll marathon. He hardly trained for it, and it was painful to finish, but he did it.

It made him ask himself: What's next? It needed to be something really outside the realm of what he considered possible. Why not a Half Ironman triathlon? It's a grueling long-distance endurance event, in which participants complete a 1.2-mile open-water swim, followed by a 56-mile bike ride and 13.1-mile run.

He asked his father last year if he wanted to train with him.

"Yeah. That sounds cool," said his father, John Frank, 63. "I'll do it with you."

"Dad and I didn't even own bikes. I hadn't been on a bike since I was 12. I hadn't been swimming since I was a kid," Tyler said. Together, they hired a coach and dived into the training. Last fall, they crossed the finish line in Racine, Wisconsin, together.

"I'm so proud of you," Tyler said to his father.

"I'm so proud of you," his dad said to him.

Two months later, they completed another Half Ironman in Augusta, Georgia.

It's not surprising, then, that Tyler would set his sights on the full Ironman, considered among the most difficult single-day sporting events in the world.

The training consumes much of your life: The early mornings and late evenings before and after work, and most of the weekends, are spent building endurance and speed to be able to complete 140.6 miles within 17 hours. When the training mileage amps up, you spend six hours on Saturday and six hours on Sunday swimming, biking and running. For months. You give up your social life.

After finishing three Half Ironman events the first seven months of this year, however, Tyler's mental energy and stamina were flagging. His coach noticed, and emailed him in July, saying: You can physically hurt yourself for the rest of your life if you don't commit to the training.

Tyler doubled down. He spent the next six weeks focusing on getting himself ready.

Finally, his goal was in sight. The race was a week away, and he felt ready. His coach told him he was prepared.

"The only thing you do now is don't get hurt," he said. "Be careful."

Tyler, his coach and another training buddy went out for an easy morning swim and bike ride exactly a week prior. It was a foggy, overcast and wet morning. They got on their bikes after a 40-minute swim and crossed over a flat bridge he's crossed more than 20 times during his training. It has a serrated grate over a section of the road. It makes a buzzing sound when you ride over it.

He and his buddies were talking about the Ironman tattoo they planned to get on their calves after they finished the race.

And that's when his bike slipped and flew out of control. He fell hard on his elbow, hip and knee. The serrated edges in the road punctured his skin. He had a deep gash in his arm and knee, and he was bleeding profusely.

"I was so lightheaded and dizzy," Tyler remembers. His coach wrapped him in a towel and drove him to the hospital. "I knew I was bruised and punctured," Tyler said. "I thought it would get better within a week."

His parents rushed to meet him at the hospital. His father was surprised to see him still in good spirits.

"He thinks he's going to be in the race next week," John whispered to his wife.

The doctor walked in after an MRI and spoke bluntly: Your tricep has detached from your arm. You can't swim. You can't bike. There's not a chance in the world you can be in this race.

He needed surgery.

Tyler sat in the hospital bed, still bloody, with his family around him, and the doctor's words hit him.

He broke down and bawled.

And then he got over it.

"OK, I'm done," he said. "Yeah, it sucks, but there's nothing you can do.

"I know I would have finished the race. That's good enough," he said.

He called and cheered his coach and friend when they completed the race seven days later. He doesn't know if he'll ever be able to go through the training again and give it another try.

"So, I don't have an Ironman finisher's medal or tattoo, but I don't need that to validate my self-worth," he said.

Maybe there was something just as profound to learn from the journey: A failed attempt is not a failure.

He and his father plan to complete another Half Ironman together next spring.