It was one of those days now. Talk of poverty had invited in everything else that was real, and that included graduation, the future, Vietnam. Twelve days from graduation, and the draft was out there, and waiting. As if to reinforce the thought, we passed a billboard five miles down:

HAVE YOU REGISTERED FOR THE SELECTIVE SERVICE?

IT’S THE LAW!

They wanted our names, addresses, the best way to fill the ranks. And it wasn’t my brothers alone who’d made it real. We both had friends who’d gone and died. “How did it feel to sign those papers?”

I asked it to make conversation, but Chance averted his eyes. “I haven’t done it yet.”

I opened my mouth and closed it. Once a man turned eighteen, the law allowed thirty days to sign up. I still had time, but Chance’s birthday was three months before mine. “Are you serious?” I asked.

“It’s a bullshit law.”

“But still a law.”

“It’s a bullshit war.”

It occurred to me then that we’d not spoken of Vietnam in months, and I realized now that the reticence had come from Chance. If I raised the subject, he laughed it off. If I pushed, he deflected in some other way. I’d been so caught up in my own frustrations, I’d not thought twice about it. But my best friend had just revealed more in two short sentences than he had in three long months.

A bullshit law …

A bullshit war …

I wanted to push, but knew at a look he wouldn’t have it. The silence continued until I stopped at his house: a dingy cube with a blue tarp on the roof, where it leaked around the chimney. “You want me to come in?” I asked.

“I told Mom I’d clean the kitchen.”

“I can help if you want.”

“Nah, I’m good.” Chance climbed out and closed the door. “Don’t forget what I said about Becky Collins. You might not see the chip on her shoulder, but it’s there and it’s big.”

“I’ll remember.”

“Tomorrow, then.”

“See you at school.”

I watched him into the house, but stayed on the street for another moment. Was it possible my best friend was afraid to register for the draft? I couldn’t see it. Some kind of conscientious objector? Protests against the war were on the streets and in the news, but those were hippies and cowards and people in big cities.

What happened when someone like Chance broke the law?

Would they come looking for my friend?