“Uh, probably not. People were sharing what they had. Anyone selling acid was asking a buck a tab.”

“It wasn’t Owsley.”

“They didn’t care. To them, acid was acid. Except the brown acid. They made an announcement that it was bad stuff.”

“Announcement?” Milton perks up. “How?”

“On the PA.”

“What about sex?” Arno asks.

“No announcements about that on the PA.”

“You’re a riot, Lucas.”

“Someone had a baby.” I yawn, barely able to keep my eyes open. Probably got less than a dozen hours of sleep since Friday at 4:30 a.m., when I left my house to get Tinsley. Wonder where she is now.

“Was everyone doing it?” Arno asks.

“Sure, Arno, all over the place. You couldn’t take a step without stumbling over some balling couple.”

“Really?’

“No. It was a music festival, not a giant orgy. If people were doing it, it wasn’t where everyone could see.”

“You said people were getting high where everyone could see,” Milton points out.

I yawn again. “I think there’s a slight difference.” Using my knapsack as a pillow, I lie down on the GTO’s back seat. Eyes close and refuse to open.

At home, my weary spirits sink when I sort through the latest pile of mail and find there’s still no reply from Robin. But there is a letter from the National Mobilization Committee to End the War in Vietnam. Thank God! I rip open the envelope. Inside is another envelope, this one from the Great Neck draft board addressed to me care of a San Francisco address. Holding my breath, I tear that letter open.

Dear Mr. Baker:

We have received your request to have your induction physical moved to San Francisco. Before your request can be considered, we require additional information regarding your change of residence. This must include the following:

1. A photocopy of either:

A valid driver’s license from the state of residence.

or

The signature page of a valid lease. (You must include the name, address and phone number of the landlord.)

2. An original of one of the following:

A phone bill with your name and address.

or

A utility bill with your name and address.

My innards seize up. I have none of the above. Thanks to the paterfamilias, my legal address is in Bay Shore.

I am completely, inalterably fucked.

“Charles isn’t here anymore,” someone named Mary Ellen tells me over the phone. She’s a draft counselor at the American Friends office. “I’ve taken over his cases.”

“Know where he went?”

“No. He just stopped coming in one day. We called Creedmoor and he hadn’t shown up there, either. We found some Black Panther literature in his desk, but that’s all.”

I’ll bet anything that he’s in Oakland helping to feed hungry children before school.