Because the Dow Chemical Company produces napalm, it’s the poster child for the American military-industrial complex currently reaping millions from the war in Vietnam. Napalm is a flammable jelly the military uses to torch vast swathes of Vietnamese jungle and people. Water boils at 212 degrees. Napalm burns at 2,000 degrees. Witnesses say watching it immolate jungle is like looking into a sea of fire. It sticks to human skin and melts flesh. Since it’s dropped from bombers high above, the military has no way of knowing (and clearly doesn’t give a crap) how many Vietnamese women and children it incinerates daily.

“So, see you Monday after dinner?” Milton may be young, completely lost as far as girls are concerned, and quirky about dark, claustrophobic spaces, but he is a solid dude.

“You don’t have to,” I tell him. “I said I’ll go.”

Milton looks dubious. “Promise?”

I promise.

Milton leaves. I stand in the driveway, gazing absently at the placid tree-lined suburban street. The tent caterpillar nests are still small, but there seem to be a lot of them this year. This is the street where Arno and I used to ride our bikes, throw footballs, and play fungo with a bat and a tennis ball. This is the driveway where Robin and I would park at night and make out for hours. It’s a warm afternoon, but the military draft sends a shiver to my core. I can’t completely process what’s happened. It’s like you graduate from high school and if you’re not going to college, the party’s over. Suddenly, dying and displacement apply directly to your own pitiful butt. I can’t even ask why anyone didn’t warn me. All the warning signs were there. The real question is, why didn’t I take them more seriously?

From around the corner comes the downshifting burble of a well-tuned four-cylinder engine. A moment later, the paterfamilias pulls up in the MG. Riding shotgun is a heavyset balding man wearing a blue blazer, white shirt, and a red-and-blue-striped tie. He heaves himself out of the car.

“She’s a beauty, just as you promised,” the man says to the paterfamilias, who’s also gotten out. (A few years ago, he had the MG painted a color called Rolls-Royce Willow Gold. With immense pride he will tell anyone willing to listen about the eleven coats of paint needed to achieve its deep, lustrous finish.)

“And hard to find. Probably less than three thousand in the entire country,” the paterfamilias replies. He and the heavy man turn their gazes to me.

“This is my son Lucas,” the paterfamilias says. “Lucas, this is Mr. Brown.”

When I shake Mr. Brown’s meaty hand, he doesn’t release it right away. It feels like he’s appraising me. Makes me uncomfortable. I gesture to the red sports car at the curb. “Nice Jag.”