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Walking through the small unadorned lobby, she revels in her achievement. It took less than a week to find the right apartment: two bedrooms, ground floor, in an old prewar building on Seventy-Fifth Street, on the corner of Broadway. With her paycheck and Richie’s disability money, they’ll be able to swing the rent and then some.

Ben borrowed a truck to move stuff here. They arranged the furniture for Richie’s convenience. There’s only one conventional lock on the door, not three locks. None of the posters from her other apartment are hung on the wall, though she told her friends she’d help organize the Pentagon action.

The new place doesn’t feel like home yet. An aura of spookiness prevails, like the feeling of finding oneself the only person in a movie theatre. Surely it will become more homey next week after Richie moves in. Then her friends will visit; so will her sister and even Grace and Carla. Maybe even one or two of Richie’s vet friends. He must have some. She’s trying to be hopeful. A new apartment doesn’t mean starting over, of course not. What does it mean? She hasn’t figured that out. When she signed the lease, it occurred to her that Melvin would no longer know her address. She’s able to let that happen, which is courage of a sort.

The phone wakes her from a scary dream she doesn’t want to remember. Faint light filters through the window. Not quite awake, she lifts the receiver. “Hello.”

“Josie, it’s Ben. Not good news.” She listens as he unfolds the tale.

“I have to call Celia.” It’s early but her sister needs to know. First she needs to gather her thoughts, her strength. But her thoughts frighten her.

Celia picks up on the first ring. “I know. I heard last night. The attorney phoned me.” She speaks quickly as if ready to rush out the door.

“Which attorney?” Josie asks.

“Don Watts. Is he very young? I want a white-haired, stoop-shouldered man to be at my son’s side like a father.”

“It doesn’t matter; he’s part of a legal team. What did he say?”

“They have scant evidence to tie Miles to anything but the last action, which didn’t happen. I’ll be able to see him briefly after the arraignment.”

“I want to see him too.”

“Don said we have to be careful. They’ll log his visits. You’re an activist. It may not be helpful.”

She wants to argue this but lets it go. “Did the attorney say anything about a plea?”

“Miles and the others will plead not guilty with extenuating circumstances, which Don says would offer a historical context to what he’s accused of. He doubted there’d be bail set, because they’re fugitives.”

“Oh, Celia, I’m so sad, so sorry, so—”

“Something else,” Celia says. “Sam stayed awake with me all night, though he didn’t talk much. He decided to go to school this morning. It’s baffling.”

“He can’t handle it is why. What about you?”

“All night I could hear Paul cautioning me to stay loose, but I’m terrified. What’s worse is that it’s out of my hands. I have to rely on others. No one I know, no one who loves Miles as much as I do.”

“Oh, Celia, I’m so sorry. Where’s Richie?”

“He takes a heavy dose of something to help him sleep. I haven’t told him yet. I need to get dressed.”

Josie replaces the receiver, feeling that she let her sister down, but what could she say? That unless there’s a miracle, the only question now is how long the sentence will be and where Miles will be sent? Though she ought to get ready for work, she can’t perform normal but can’t remain here either, where suddenly the bare walls feel threatening.

She phones Ben.

“It’s me. Are you busy?”

“When?”

“Now. Later too?”

“I had a temporary gig at some library, but I was hoping for someone to dissuade me. So, yes, I mean, no, I’m not busy. What do you need?”

“I don’t know.”

“Okay. Do you want me to bring breakfast?”

“No. Can I come to your place?”

“I’m waiting. And, Josie, we’ll face it. Miles belongs to all of us.”

As she walks up Amsterdam Avenue to Ben’s place, her mind juggles different possibilities for Miles, but none promise anything other than prison. Escaping would be the only way out, and how in hell would he be able to do that? When they were little and made up various games, Miles favored one, not exactly hide-and-seek, but almost. She was to be kidnapped and taken somewhere far away and hard to find, but he would search until he found her. Sometimes she’d hide in one of the nearby stores or in a distant telephone booth. He was always able to find and free her. Now he’ll be whisked away to God knows where. And what in heavens can she do to free him?

She passes a tall, elegant building of expensive apartments, where a uniformed doorman stands beneath a canopy as glass doors slide open and closed. She wonders if any of the people living there protest the war, racism, or sexism. Or do they pursue their daily lives as if none of it is happening? To them, the arrest of Miles would mean nothing. Yet in her old neighborhood, Miles’s arrest will be a tale that will travel from one mouth to another like all good stories. Not because they know him or care about how it will resolve but because troubles elsewhere can offer temporary soothing. In the end, it will be her family that will be left to deal with the story’s outcome. Maybe some things never leave home.

Ben’s studio apartment is indecently neat. On his walls are the posters missing from hers. In the two-by-four kitchen, he beats eggs for omelets. Beside him, she fills the coffeepot, then pops bread in the toaster. Music she doesn’t recognize is playing softly.

“I thought about offering you some dope, but . . . I don’t know. . .”

“Too early for drugs, too late for Miles,” she says. “You realize nothing short of a miracle will keep him from prison.”

“I realize.”

“My sister’s there now, waiting to see him. The lawyers want me to stay away, call me an activist like it’s a bad thing.”

“You’ll see him soon enough. In truth, Josie, you can’t offer him anything helpful right now. I talked to one of the members of the legal team last night. He thinks, given the antiwar movement and the historical moment, that extenuating circumstances may have an effect on the outcome.”

“Like what?”

“Shortening the sentence. Miles is young. If he doesn’t have to go away for years, then, well . . .”

“I guess. Actually, Ben, you’re making me feel a teeny-tiny little bit less depressed.”

“That’s what I’m here for.”