Two young men talking somewhere in the woods of upstate New York circa 1967-1968. Looks like morning sunlight against a rocky hillside. One sits on the boulder that the other leans on. Both look toward the ground. Both rest an open hand on the opposite arm. The one sitting on the boulder has long curly hair that circles his head with tight, springy curls. He wears a denim jacket, denim bellbottoms, and white sneakers with stripes. The one standing has hair that is parted in the middle and falls in waves toward his chin. He wears denims over boots, a sweater over a shirt, wire-rimmed glasses. Both wear the hint of a smile. They are young, about to graduate from the college where they've been friends for four years. The one sitting on the boulder won't go to VietNam. He'll find a way to avoid the war he's been protesting for years. His friend is also against the war; but when he's drafted, he goes. He leaves the quiet woods of upstate New York for a jungle in Southeast Asia, where he finds more friends, more soldiers like himself who oppose the very war they're fighting. During the course of his tour, one of his new friends is killed by sniper fire. One moment he was talking; the next, part of his head was gone. They were standing side by side, and for years that gets stuck in his mind, how they were standing side by side, a pair of friends, talking about nothing much, when an unseen sniper targeted his friend and pulled the trigger and what was in one instant a young man became a bloody corpse in the next. After that, anything that happened before the war feels like ancient history. It feels like some other time altogether, one in which some other person lived, a being awash in sunlight, someone not just unlike himself, but not even connected to himself. Someone different altogether.