hanksgiving, 1970, changing planes at a midwestern airport. I wasn't feeling thankful, not even for my sky-high draft lottery number. I felt more guilty than good about luck shielding me from decisions I'd never wish on anybody: Canada, prison, Vietnam.

A soldier in a wheelchair was smoking Luckies like his life depended on it. He had a newspaper on his lap but wasn't reading it: I saw ashes on the headlines. After awhile two soldiers sat in front of me, discussing the football game. One hoped the storm would hold off because he hated God-damn turbulence.

A guy and a girl my age—college—came up to the wheelchair. "Vietnam?" he asked.

The soldier nodded.

"Good," she said. "Paralyzed, babyburner? Still got your manhood?"

"Yeah," he said, too quick, so quick it made you wonder.

The bigger soldier jumped up, but the skinny one shoved him aside. He dropped the guy with one punch, then smacked the girl twice in the face.

A black security guard my father's age ran over. "Did you see that?" the girl shrieked.

"I saw it." He yanked the guy to his feet. "Now get outta here."

His voice was so venomous they fled without speaking. The wheelchair soldier was shaking, pretending to read the paper. The other two sat down again, careful, like they weren't sure the seats fit anymore.

"Sorry, man," said the skinny one, his voice full of holes. "I was afraid you couldn't do it."

I remembered going to Niagara Falls as a kid, the disappointment of crossing into Canada and not feeling any different on a foreign soil. It was like the world was just all one place.

We took off late in the snowstorm.