“Guy who lives next door. The jar finally blows up and the next thing I know, someone’s calling my name. ‘Milton? Milton Fischer, is that you?’ I look over and there’s this guy in pajamas standing on his front lawn.”

Can you picture it? Joe Schmo gets up for a four a.m. snack. He’s poking around in the refrigerator when he hears something outside. Looks out the window, and there’s this kid from the neighborhood throwing a Molotov cocktail at the house next door.

Milton slumps into the desk chair, wringing his hands. “My grandparents were forced to flee Austria. Rudy had to leave this country. I’m not running. It’s time to stay and fight, Lucas. A true patriot must defend his country against his government.”

Sounds like revolution is in the air. Only . . . “What does going underground even mean?”

“You go to a cemetery and find someone who died before they were ten years old — someone who wouldn’t have been old enough to work so they wouldn’t have needed a Social Security card. You use their name to apply for one. Once you’ve got that, you get another ID, like a library card or something. You use those IDs to get a driver’s license. Presto, you have a new identity.”

Weird — it sounds like what my father’s doing with me. Only he’s using my name. “And then?”

Milton’s eyes slide away. His forehead bunches. He props his elbows on his knees and leans forward. “There have to be others. Draft resisters. Antiwar advocates. The SDS. We join them and fight to end this stupid war.”

In another part of the house, a phone rings. It’s 4:40 a.m. Not hard to guess who’s calling.

“It’s your parents, man.”

Milton straightens up. His eyes dart left and right, and he presses his hands down on the arms of the chair like he’s about to spring up and make a break for it.

“Milton, they’ve already lost Rudy.”

He slumps back into the chair and bites his lip. His parents would be devastated. “Then we’ll go to Canada. Join Rudy. My parents’ll know we’re together.”

He may be a genius, but right now he’s not thinking straight. “That’s the first place the cops would look for you. With Rudy. Canada may not allow the extradition of draft dodgers, but I have a feeling it’s not the same for arsonists.”

Milton makes a fist and bangs it against the desktop. “Shit. Shit!”

There’s a soft tap on my door.

“Come in, Mom.”

The door opens. Mom’s wrapped in a blue robe, blinking the sleep out of her eyes. Her hair is flat on one side. She sniffs. “Gasoline?”

“Milton’s parents want him home?” I think it best to move the conversation along.

She nods. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing, Mom.”