Now, at the dinner table, at the park on Sundays, any occasion when the Hindustanees met, Jivan warned: “Buy war bonds, and buy many of them. We must show our allegiance to the American government.” He insisted that Kishen expand her vegetable garden, that she sign and mail a pledge card stating that her household would follow the practice of meatless Tuesdays, wheatless Wednesdays. He spoke about this with Clive Edgar and the banker Jasper Davis, with Stephen Eggenberger, with the sheriff, with the clerks at the general store, and made sure they knew. Amarjeet was aware why he was doing this: if they were ever suspected, even though they had done nothing wrong, all this would protect them.

Amarjeet did not like Jivan to pretend to be more loyal to the United States government than he truly felt. At one time, three years ago, he had wanted to fight for the Ghadar, but that was when Ghadar had aligned itself with the words of Thomas Jefferson and Patrick Henry, not gone against America. It was true that when the Singhs went into town, some Anglos would stare at them, but he did not like the way his uncle cowered. He would not hide behind the purchase of Liberty bonds. Not even when Ghadar’s impending trial and RamChandra’s face appeared on the front page of the San Francisco Chronicle.

AMARJEET TOLD RAM that he was required to register for the selective service. “We will go together,” he said.

“Register for what?” Ram asked.

“The draft,” Amarjeet clarified.

“Only the Americans are required, Jeetu,” Ram said.

“Everyone,” Amarjeet said. “Between the ages of twenty-one and thirty years. You and me.”

“Everyone between those ages,” Jivan agreed.

“What does it matter?” Ram said. “I am a foreigner. I will not have to fight.”

“We must follow the law. We must be faultless,” Jivan said. “If they ask us to register, we should register.”

ON THE MORNING OF JUNE 1, Amarjeet woke early and hitched up the mare to head into town. For once, he was awake before Ram. He was excited to register.

“Don’t take long,” Jivan said, when they were ready and had climbed onto the buckboard.

“Chacha-ji, there is a full day of parades,” Amarjeet said.

“Why must they have parades for such a thing? We do not have need of their parades. Finish the registration and come back.”

Amarjeet said nothing, feeling reprimanded.

On the road into town, Ram said, “The problem is, Jeetu, you are bored.”

“I am,” he agreed.

“And you missed being a youth in Punjab.”

“What do you mean?”

“A gang of friends. Mischief. You did not have what I had at fifteen, sixteen, seventeen.”

Amarjeet was quiet. Ram was too close to the truth.

“When you are bored, the only thing you can do is visit Harry.”

How did Ram know this so clearly? Sometimes Amarjeet thought the mile between their homes seemed too long, whether by foot or bicycle. “I like Harry. He’s swell.”