Hi. There’s a friend of mine way out in the jungle. Three weeks ago, he sent me a letter saying he wanted to kill himself.

If Chris was really going to do it, wouldn’t he have done it by now?

It’s nearly seven o’clock. I’m supposed to go with Arno and Tinsley to the festival in a few hours. But I can’t. Not knowing this.

Fuck!

The Dodsons’ is one of a dozen small brick houses nestled close together along a block lined with parked cars. In the fading evening light, a balding man is pushing a hand mower in neat lines across the small front lawn. He has a potbelly and is wearing a sleeveless T-shirt with patches of graying hair poking out along the neckline. A shrine to the Madonna stands beside the porch steps. An American flag hangs from the eave.

“Mr. Dodson?” I hold my breath. Does Chris’s father look like a man whose son has recently died? It’s not the kind of thing I have any experience judging. I glance at the front of the house, not exactly sure what I’m looking for other than some sort of indication one way or the other.

Chris’s father stops pushing the mower. His eyes go to the motorcycle helmet under my arm. “Yeah?”

“My name’s Lucas. I’m a friend of Chris’s.”

“Oh, yeah?” His narrowing eyes and pronounced scowl plainly state that until this moment he didn’t know Chris had any long-haired motorcycle-riding degenerate hippie friends.

“From work. I, um, well, ever since he went over to Vietnam, we’ve been exchanging letters. Only, it’s been a while since I’ve heard from him.”

Mr. Dodson turns his head so he’s looking at me mostly with his right eye. “You know Chris from that junk-mail place?” he asks skeptically.

“That’s right.”

Mr. Dodson’s eyes dart around as if he’s nervous one of his neighbors will see him talking to me. “You wanna come in?” he asks.

“Uh . . . okay, thanks.”

On the small front porch, Mr. Dodson takes off his shoes and leaves them by the door, so I do the same with my boots. The doors and windows are open, and an attic exhaust fan whirs loudly overhead. The house is dark inside and filled with the mixed aromas of stale cigarettes and a recently finished meal. The sound of running water and the clinks and clanks of dishes and pots being washed come from the kitchen.

“Mother, we got company,” Mr. Dodson calls.