A loud roar cuts these agitated thoughts short. High above, two fighter jets rocket across my field of vision. And thus I am reminded that we are not far from the Grumman Corporation, which makes many millions of dollars selling airborne killing machines to the government so it can incinerate, maim, and murder barefoot peasants. Such jet-propelled agents of destruction are a reminder that while Tinsley and I enjoy this beautiful, peaceful, sun-washed afternoon, eight thousand miles away, Chris stalks an enemy through shoulder-high elephant grass that tears through uniforms and skin and causes oozing infections. We hear soft guitar music; he listens for hints of a VC ambush. I smoke grass for fun; he smokes it to dull the constant gnawing terror. I take life for granted; he has only one wish — to get through the next hour alive.

And what have I done to avoid a similar fate? I looked up Thoreau, Albert Camus, Bertrand Russell, and Thomas Aquinas in our World Book Encyclopedia at home, but that wasn’t much help. Then I went to the library and found some books by, or about, those deep thinkers. (I probably should have tried the Encyclopaedia Britannica while at the library, but I’ve always found it hard to read.)

Anyway, those library books are currently gathering dust in my room. I keep intending to read them, but it seems that all I do when I’m at my desk is write to Robin.

Having finished Frisbeeing, Tinsley again joins me on the blanket, breathing deeply, a fine patina of sweat shiny on her forehead. She gently rakes her fingers through her long yellow hair, and as she does, her blouse opens just enough to reveal the soft inner curve of a breast. In a moment of weakness, I imagine leaning close and kissing her delicate throat, then letting my lips graze the soft skin farther down.

“What are you thinking?” She makes her eyes go wide and asks in a way that implies that she thinks she knows exactly what I’m thinking. I feel my face flush, and quickly knee-jerk an alibi.

“Uh . . . about whether the encyclopedia your parents buy you is a predictor of your future intellect. Grow up with the Encyclopaedia Britannica and you’ll be president. Get stuck with the World Book and you’ll be mopping bathrooms.”

She gives me a sideways glance. “Liar.”

She’s right. And why should I feel embarrassed about looking? She knows how she’s dressed and what she’s revealing. “Okay. I was thinking about kissing your neck and breasts.”

Tinsley nods as matter-of-factly as if I’d just pointed out that it’s Tuesday. “The other day my mother accused me of being a temptress. She’s worried that I might be ‘prone to promiscuity.’ I swear, Lucas, those are the exact words the old mare used.”