I give him the same reasons I would have given the draft board had I applied for conscientious objector status: there’s no reason to believe that the United States is in any danger of being attacked and therefore we cannot claim to be defending our country. Nor is there evidence that the Vietnamese people themselves want us in their country. Meanwhile, every day hundreds on both sides of the conflict die.

He takes another sip. From upstairs comes the sound of a shower. Mrs. Dodson peeks in from the kitchen. How strange is this? Sitting in a house I’ve never been to before with people I’ve only just met, and already we’re debating the war?

“How’d you say you an’ Chris got to be friends?” Mr. Dodson asks.

“We both ran insertion machines.”

Chris’s father has one of those faces that reveals almost everything he’s thinking before he says it. Right now, he’s asking himself why the son of the owner would do the same crap job his son did. But then his face darkens and he nods at the mantel. “Chris tell you about his cousin? My nephew Peter? He was killed last month near Tam Ky in the Quang Tin province. A fine young soldier.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, sir. I’m sorry to hear that anyone’s died in this war. I really am.”

Mr. Dodson puts down his glass and rubs his hands together. “If that’s true, how come you kids spit on soldiers when they come back?”

“I can only speak for myself, but I would never do that. As far as I’m concerned, it’s not the soldiers who are at fault. It’s the government that’s sending them over there.”

The way Mr. Dodson winces, you’d think he’d just been slapped. “Know what they say about kids like you? If you don’t like it here, leave.”

Looking apprehensive, Mrs. Dodson comes to the kitchen doorway but no closer. I get to my feet. “I do like it here, sir. In a lot of ways it’s probably better than anyplace else. But that doesn’t mean I’m required to believe in my country right or wrong. If we’ve made a mistake, then we should admit it. And stop sending young men like your son and nephew over there to die.”

Mr. Dodson also gets to his feet but doesn’t choose to argue. Instead, he gazes at the photos on the mantel again. I also look, and see that he is indeed the soldier in the older black-and-white photo, the one with the medals. The eyes, the shape of the jaw, the cleft chin.

Mrs. Dodson steps cautiously out of the kitchen. I thank her for the iced tea, tell them both that I’m glad Chris is okay, and that I’m sorry about their nephew.