I follow Cousin Barry upstairs. He’s barefoot; the tattered, stringy hems of his bell-bottoms drag on the steps. It’s not like he needed the camp stove right away. I’ve come here because I don’t know what else to do now that Robin’s gone. I’m usually pretty good by myself, but not today. Today I’m a lost, empty glove that needs a hand.

Barry’s bedroom smells of cigarettes and turpentine. A mattress occupies a corner of the floor. Some colorful plastic kites are piled in another corner. The rest of the room is awash with clothing, art books, record albums, and music magazines. Nearly every flat surface higher than the floor is covered with half-squeezed tubes of paint, brushes, palettes, and cans of turpentine and paint thinner. Nearly every inch of wall space is hidden by canvases, posters of rock bands, or scribbles. Barry jots his thoughts on the walls, where they are less likely to get lost in the clutter.

Taped to one wall is an ad for the Woodstock Music and Art Fair. It’s billed as “An Aquarian Exposition” in Wallkill, New York: Three Days of Peace and Music, with an art show, a crafts bazaar, workshops, and “hundreds of acres to roam on.” More important, it will feature a gargantuan lineup of top music acts like nothing anyone’s ever seen gathered in one place before.

“You going?” Barry asks when he sees me studying the ad.

“Definitely. It’s gonna be incredible. Thousands of people, man.” A month ago, Milton, our mutual friend Arno Exley, and I decided to send away for tickets. What better way to celebrate our last gasp of summer together before Arno starts his freshman year at Bucknell, Milton goes back to MIT, and I — as of yesterday, fill in the blank: ____.

I’ll be worm dirt no doubt. . . .

Upon hearing that I’m planning to go to the Aquarian Exposition (whatever that means), Barry purses his lips and furrows his brow. It’s an expression I know well. Cousin rivalry. He’s a year older than me, and for most of our formative years, it was no contest. He was top dog, looking down on me literally and figuratively. Then the Semi-Miraculous Transformation took place, and now he must train his gaze upward. But the competitive streak is alive and well, at least until my corpse is flown back from Nam in a flag-shrouded coffin.

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure I’m gonna go, too,” Barry announces.

“For real?” I blurt out, then instantly feel bad for reacting with surprise instead of encouragement. For three of the past four years, Barry hardly left his parents’ house. Then, starting roughly a year ago, he began to venture out locally, but rarely farther than a long walk or short drive.