“Oh, of course,” Mom says with a drollness I’ve forgotten she was capable of. “It’s the middle of the night and your friend is here reeking of gasoline. What could possibly make me think something was going on?”

In the predawn darkness, the air is heavy with moisture. Houses are shadowy silhouettes. I’ve pulled on pants and a shirt to escort Milton home. A week ago, if someone had asked me if he would ever carry a gun or throw a Molotov cocktail at a house, I would have said never, not in a million years.

“Listen, man,” I tell him. “What happened to Rudy is beyond shitty. You have every right to be pissed, but right now you have to fix what happened tonight. Then go back to MIT and keep doing whatever you’re doing. You’ve got more promise than Arno and me combined and multiplied. So don’t blow it, okay? There are plenty of other people around to protest the war and all the other crap that’s wrong with this country. But they don’t have one-tenth your brains. Let them be the ones who go underground while you go on to a lifetime of accomplishment.”

Milton’s quiet for a moment. Then says, “You didn’t just make that up.”

“I might’ve started thinking about it back in my room,” I admit. “How’d you know?”

“‘A lifetime of accomplishment?’ Get real.”

“I was trying to make a point,” I say defensively.

“I know. And it shows talent. Ever consider going into speechwriting?”

“Seriously, Milton.”

“Okay, okay. I heard you.”

Somewhere in the dark, a bird begins to chirp. It’s getting close to dawn. The lights are on in Milton’s house. The front door opens before we reach it. Mrs. Fischer’s eyes are glistening. Mr. Fischer looks grim. They put their arms around their son and lead him inside. They don’t ask what happened.

They already know.

Mom’s sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee. Once she’s up, she’s up. “Tell me.”

When I do, she looks stricken. “Oh, dear God. His poor parents.” She shudders. “All of you, with the bodies of men and the brains of infants.”

Guess that about sums it up. She sips her coffee. We sit in silence. She hasn’t asked about my draft situation lately, but she must be wondering. I tell her I’ve airmailed a letter to the Berkeley chapter of the Mobe. Inside is another letter addressed to the Great Neck draft board requesting permission to take my induction physical in San Francisco. Someone at the Mobe will post the letter so that it will look like I mailed it from California. As soon as they receive a reply from the Great Neck board, the Mobe will let me know and I’ll fly out there for the physical.