“Please,” Milton whimpers. “You don’t understand.”

The flame illuminates draft cards, licenses, school IDs pulled from our wallets. “High-school kids?” Someone sounds surprised. A draft card is flicked away into the dark.

“This license ain’t even real.”

“F-for getting into bars,” Milton tries to explain.

For a moment, all I hear is our heavy, scared-to-death panting. Are the Pagans trying to decide what to do next? Will a jogger discover the bodies of three young men in this tunnel tomorrow morning?

The hand holding my arm behind my back relaxes. The pain in my shoulder subsides. The distant sound of city traffic seeps faintly into the tunnel.

“Told you they was too young for undercover,” one of the Pagans says.

The situation seems defused. Relief wants to creep in, but I’m not sure it’s warranted.

“You stupid fuck!” Clyde punches Arno hard in the solar plexus.

“Oof!” You can hear the wind rush out of Arno’s lungs. He doubles over, crumples to his knees. Our wallets slap to the ground. A hundred imaginary bats burst from of the tunnel’s ceiling and flap away.

Clyde turns to me. I grimace and brace, expecting a blow. Instead, he thrusts something small and tubular into my palm. “Don’t lose it, pansy.”

Arno’s on his hands and knees, his rasping gasps echoing off the curved tunnel walls. Milton and I are breathing hard. My queasy stomach feels like a water balloon that’s been dropped from four floors up. The Windowpane has become an annoyance, making it difficult to find consistent purchase in reality. The lingering hallucinations — flapping bats overhead, tarantulas on the walls — are a distraction. Milton groans, bends over, and puts his hands on his knees. An instant later, he bolts out of the tunnel.

The splash of vomit follows.

Arno slowly gets to his feet and wipes his hands over and over on his jeans. The insides of his pants legs are stained dark. He’s trembling.

Using the flame from my Zippo for light, I collect our wallets, cards, and IDs. On the cover of Milton’s Life magazine is a slightly blurred black-and-white photo portrait of a boyish-looking soldier. The small headline reads:

THE FACES OF THE AMERICAN DEAD IN VIETNAM

In the flickering light and sputtering residue of the Windowpane, the face seems to have a rueful expression, as if it is saying, Go back to the suburbs, children. You’re out of your league here.

Back on the walkway, Arno scrubs his hands in a drinking fountain. He’s still quivering when we reach the car. We pretend not to notice the scent of urine from his jeans.