Chance lived in such fear of it! It’s why he flirted shamelessly and picked fights and never backed down, because none of those things would kill him, or blind him or take his face. He’d seen that at the airport, once: a soldier with his skin melted from the hairline down. Since then, Chance had lived in dread of his eighteenth birthday, dreaming of all the ways to die in Vietnam, not shot cleanly like Robert, but disemboweled or impaled or tortured to death in Hỏa Lò Prison. He hadn’t registered for the draft, and if he ever did, he wouldn’t go if they called him. He was afraid and Gibby was not, a simple truth too painful to look at straight on.

So was it envy Chance felt?

It felt more like resentment.

That was impossible, though, and way too dark, so Chance made his way to Gibby’s door, ignoring an unusual desire to turn and leave. Opening the door, he said, “Dude, you okay?”

“Chance, hey. I’m glad it’s you.” Gibby stood at the window with his back turned. “I thought you were my dad.”

“Yeah, he asked me to come, believe it or not.”

“Did he tell you why?”

Chance opened his mouth to answer, but Gibby turned so the light caught his face. “Oh shit, you did it.” Chance covered his mouth, shaking his head. “Where’d you go? The Carriage Room?”

“Yeah.”

“Bikers?”

“A few of ’em, I guess.”

Chance moved closer. His friend’s face was a wreck. “I told you not to do it.”

“I know you did.”

“You should have taken me.”

“It wouldn’t have made a difference.”

Gibby limped across the room, and Chance got a better look at his face. “Man, I am so sorry. I should have tried harder to talk you out of it. When I saw how serious you were, I should have gone with you. But damn, you really are an idiot.”

Gibby rocked his palm side to side. A little of this, a little of the other …

“You’re not going back there, are you?”

“They’d kill me if I did.”

The certainty in his voice made Chance realize how close it must have been.

“Did you learn anything?”

“They knew Jason and Tyra. I’m pretty sure that they’re the ones Jason fought last week.” Gibby dragged a faded sweatshirt over his head, then eased a ball cap onto his head. “How do I look?”

“Depends on where we’re going.”

“To see a girl.”

“You don’t have a car.”

“My mother does.”

“She won’t let you take it.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Gibby slipped dark glasses over his eyes. “I’m not asking for permission.”

For French, the morning was about compartmentalization.

Lock down the personal.

Do the job.