“You’re supposed to inform them within ten days if your status changes.” Milton knows the selective service laws because of his brother, Rudy, who recently fled to Canada to avoid the draft.

“Man, talk about the last people I’d tell,” I answer ruefully.

Milton shrugs. “Just saying.”

The joint has burned down to the roach. Pinching it gingerly between thumb and forefinger, I take one last toke and, of course, get the roach burn I deserve. “Damn!” I drop the roach on the floor and touch my tongue to the raw dark spot on the tip of my index finger.

“Maybe there’s still time,” Arno says. “There’s gotta be a college that’ll take you.”

“I don’t know,” Milton says. “It’s almost July. Kind of late. If I were you, I’d talk to a draft counselor fast. The American Friends have an office in a church on Jericho Turnpike. I’ll get the address. It’s the place Rudy used.”

Arno snorts. “Lot of good it did him.”

“They’ll lay out his options, douchebag,” Milton says.

My life has come down to options. None of them good. I continue to have a hard time believing this is actually happening. A little more than a week ago, I was a high-school student and my biggest problems were scoring good dope and finding places where my girlfriend and I could have undisturbed sex. Suddenly I’m in very real danger of perishing in a war I am wholeheartedly opposed to.

How did I let this happen?

I wouldn’t say that Arno’s one-joint hypothesis has worked. I’m feeling a negligible buzz. Maybe it’s because the air in the fallout shelter is a mixture of mildew and skunky smoke, with the heaviness of a damp log thrown on a fire. Maybe it’s due to these suddenly pressing concerns about the future. Maybe it’s Milton’s obvious discomfort. Confinement in this murky gloom eventually proves too much for him. “I’m out of here. Great idea, Arno. Maybe next time we’ll find a mausoleum and get high with the stiffs.”

We’re about to climb out of the shelter when the unmistakable tap of footsteps comes from somewhere above. It can’t be Mom, because she took Alan to Adventureland in Farmingdale and won’t get home until dinner. So it’s got to be the paterfamilias.

“Let’s wait a minute,” I whisper. “He probably came home to change into his tennis clothes.”

“But he’s gonna know you’re here,” Arno whispers. “My car’s parked out front.”

“Doesn’t mean we couldn’t have walked somewhere.”