Maybe it was the grass, but I didn’t follow. “It doesn’t matter whether they want you or not. They have to take you. All you have to do is tell ’em you want to finish high school. That’ll get you a Two-S status, at least until —”

Chris waved his hand at me to stop. He caught his breath. “You don’t get it, man. The army may not want me.”

That stopped me. Cold.

“It’s the asthma. If I flunk the physical, my family’ll think I’m a total jerk-off. My dad and uncles served in World War Two. I got cousins over in Nam. In my family, you serve your country. You do your patriotic duty.”

It was a startling example of how far apart his and my worlds were. In mine, you were a loser if you let yourself get drafted. In his, you were a loser if you didn’t.

“You really want to fight in that stupid war?”

He snorted derisively. “Ain’t you heard that all you longhairs are traitors? This is America. ‘Love it or leave it.’”

“Yeah, but how do you feel about it?” I asked.

“Don’t matter.” Chris cleared his chest and spit once more. Then he turned and went back into the factory.

It’s four a.m. and I’m wiped. I could probably sleep now, but I’m looking at the faces of the dead boys in Life magazine again. The majority are between eighteen and twenty-one years old. Decked out in their fanciest Class A uniforms, wearing broad service caps that look too big for their heads. But not all are in uniform. Several dozen photos are lifted from high-school yearbooks. Most of these round-cheeked, clean-shaven youths look younger than me.

In Central Park tonight, my friends and I were way out of our depth. Same as the boys in these pages. A handful were seventeen when they died. Boys who, before they left for Vietnam, couldn’t possibly have grasped the mortal danger that lay ahead. Boys who died before they ever had a chance to really be alive.

All I have to do is look in the mirror to see who could be next.

Dear Chris,

Listen, man, feel free to lay whatever you want on me. That’s what I’m here for. But I want to correct one thing. They won’t hate you when you get back home, especially if you join the protests. To me, some of the bravest cats around are the vets against the war. To go through that horror and come back against it says a lot. You’ll be a hero. We need you, man.