Still, the hunger, the misery of losing Barry, the anxiety of my looming induction physical — it’s almost too much to bear. In the past when I’ve felt like this, there’s always been a way out. But that’s changed since the music festival. I keep thinking about those hippies. The real hippies, living in school buses, eating gruel, and being high all the time. What gets me is the sense that that’s the way they always live. Not just for a few days at a festival. I feel about as far from those feral beings as I am from the generals who are sending young men to die in Vietnam.

The laugh track from the den ebbs and flows. I ache — for Cousin Barry; for my aunt and uncle; for Brett, the brother I’ve never known; for Robin; for a cheeseburger. Getting intimate with Mr. Water Pipe would be the perfect escape. Maybe take a few reds to get numb. I can barely remember the last time I went this long without getting wrecked. But every time the impulse strikes, so do the words When are you gonna grow up and stop feeling sorry for yourself?

Fuckin’ Arno.

The mailman is coming up the walk, his bulky gray canvas satchel slung over his shoulder. Last night — even though I promised myself I wouldn’t write to Robin again until she answered my last letter — I broke down and wrote to her about Barry and how devastated his death has left me. About how tenuous and precious life really is. I wrote about Karl, and how (without going into the gory details) one way or the other I’ll be staying out of the army. About how, less than two months ago, I was almost annoyed that after graduating high school, life suddenly felt so serious, but now I realize that life feels serious because it is serious.

Envelopes and magazines slide through the front-door mail slot. Bending to pick them up, I wish for a letter from Robin, but at this point any mail for me would go to the address in Bay Shore. A white envelope pokes out from under a House & Garden magazine. The return address says:

It’s addressed to Mr. Richard Baker. That’s strange. Why would the Bay Shore draft board write to my father? I hold the envelope up to the sunlight, which outlines a card inside. It’s the same exact size and shape as a draft card. It doesn’t make sense. I tear the envelope open and find a pale-yellow draft card with my name and selective service number. It is dated August 18, 1969, and signed by the executive secretary, Norman C. Brown.

It states that I, Lucas Baker, have been classified 1-Y.