I don’t know about that. I don’t know about anything right now except the blood loudly pulsing in my ears. Here we come, three degenerate hippie freaks in a psychedelically painted microbus. If I were a border guard, I wouldn’t be wondering if we were carrying drugs. I’d be wondering what kind of drugs and how much. The Canadians may be happy to accept American draft evaders, but I have a feeling they don’t feel quite the same way about drug runners.

We’re about twenty-five yards from the crossing. “Get in the front seat,” I tell Tinsley.

We stop beside a booth, and I take my hands off the steering wheel so my white knuckles won’t be visible. Despite the coursing adrenaline that makes me feel like jumping out of my own skin, I concentrate on trying to appear relaxed. A ruddy-cheeked, heavy-lidded border agent with a blond mustache glances in at us. Maybe it’s my imagination, but it seems like his bushy blond eyebrows rise with extra interest when he sees that we’re freaks. “Identification,” he says.

We hand over our driver’s licenses. He shines a flashlight on them, then on our faces. My insides whirl at hamster-wheel speed. Riding shotgun, Tinsley smoothly takes out a cigarette and lights it. Thank God she’s got her act together. I can only pray that Barry doesn’t suddenly burst out the side door and try to hightail it into the woods.

“What’s the purpose of your visit, Lucas?” the agent asks.

“Weekend jaunt, sir.”

“Oh, yeah? Where?”

“Lake Juliette, sir. My girlfriend’s a counselor at a camp up there.”

“Your girlfriend, eh?” The agent shines the flashlight at Tinsley.

“She’s his girlfriend, sir.” I jerk my thumb toward the back.

The border agent aims the beam into the back of the bus, illuminating Barry, the mattress, the canvases, and the boxes of painting supplies. “Lot of gear for a weekend visit.”

“We’re all painters, sir. Supposed to be some beautiful landscape up that way.”

The border agent aims the flashlight into my face, making me squint. Seconds crawl slowly past. My gut is one solid cramp from throat to butt. The blood courses in my scalp, and I feel a headache coming on.

“Don’t hear the word ‘sir’ much from you longhairs,” the agent says.

Inspiration strikes. I raise a hand to shield my eyes from the flashlight’s glare. “Military family, sir. Got it drummed into me at an early age.”

He lowers the flashlight a bit. “Military, eh? Not dodging the draft, now, are yah?”

“No, sir. I’m headed for college this fall. But to be honest? Were that an issue, I’d probably consider it.”