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.”

They began to hear the commotion from the brass band. The hum of people and the mayor’s voice over the loudspeaker were carried by the dust-wind a quarter mile before they arrived.

“I know, Jeetu. I’m only telling you what I see.”

They left the buckboard and horse on the outskirts and walked down to Main Street. The streets were filled with vendors of popcorn, candy, peanuts, and balloons. Many businesses had shut down for the day. A large tent was placed at the intersection of Main and Church Streets. Underneath it, the band played a happy tune that the orchestra had played at his high school.

“I always liked that song,” Amarjeet said.

“What?” Ram asked.

Suddenly, Amarjeet was irritated. Of course Ram would not know the tune. “Look, the line is there,” Amarjeet said, pointing to the post office.

Young men queued in front of the doors for the length of two blocks. Ram and Amarjeet joined them. At 8:59, church bells rang all over town. The post office doors swung open and the first young men stepped in.

“They will think badly of us, because of the Ghadar arrests,” Amarjeet said.

“It doesn’t matter,” Ram said.

Amarjeet disagreed, but said nothing.

They stood for two more hours in the summer heat before the line advanced into the cool of the building. Five tables were set up as desks, operating simultaneously, each staffed by a Valley resident. Amarjeet and Ram stepped forward to the same table; Ram did not feel confident facing the interviewer alone. Nick Amsler, whose father ran the Swiss dairy down the road from their farm, stood at the table next to theirs. Amarjeet had gone to high school with Nick.