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carry on paying . . .
Kenny looked from one to another of the four faces staring blankly back at him. He exhaled a long sigh.
It doesn t matter. . . . I guess I got carried away a little. I was going out anyhow. I ll just be on my way.
You folks have a good evening. With that he turned away quickly and left, closing the door behind him.
An uncomfortable silence persisted for a while. Finally Stan said, Gee, I didn t realize you guys had it
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so bad. . . . I guess he ll probably grow out of it, huh?
What was he talking about? Ella asked, still dazed after Kenny s outburst.
Arnie was still looking down at the floor. Beth came over and leaned her head against his shoulder. Oh
Arnie, she sobbed. We tried, didn t we? Where did we go wrong?
* * *
Outside, Kenny pulled his parka on over his jacket and walked around to the back of the house to pick
up the backpack, suitcase full of selected books, and crammed briefcase that he had dumped from his
bedroom window. He carried his things to the end of the street and waited in the shadows of the
shrubbery by the corner streetlight. After about ten minutes, Marv Stewart s battered 95 Chevy van
appeared. Marv was at the wheel, with Bev Johnson and Harry wedged in next to him up front. Kenny
slid open the side door and hoisted his bags inside. Then he climbed in to join the crush of young people
jammed in the back amidst coats, rucksacks, suitcases, sleeping bags, and bundles of books. Okay,
Kenny? Marv called from the front as the van pulled away. Any problems?
No, Kenny answered. He felt drained, now that the worst was over and he was committed. It went
okay. Did everyone else make it?
All here, Tom Pearce s voice said from somewhere in the shadows nearby. You re the last.
Kenny gradually made out the forms as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. Tom, who could read IBM
microcode and wanted to get into AI research, was propped just behind him, next to Nancy, who had
painted the murals in Giuseppe s restaurant in Oakland. Sheila Riordan, who understood tensor calculus
and wrote plays, was behind them, with Kev, the chess expert, and Charlie Cameron, who was into
number theory and could recite pi to fifty places. . . . And yes, the others were all there, too, farther
back. Kenny leaned back and made himself comfortable between his backpack and a pile of blankets.
So what s the schedule? he called out to Marv.
Down the Interstate and on through L.A., bound for Phoenix. We ll probably stop for breakfast
somewhere near the Arizona border.
When do you think we ll make Boston? Kenny asked.
Aw . . . should be sometime around Tuesday, I figure.
Uh-huh.
Kenny settled back into the shadows and closed his eyes to rest. He wondered if it really was the way
people said. Boston home of the revolution of the New Wave generation, who were sweeping away
the rejected, outmoded values of an era that was ending, and replacing them with new ways born of the
rebelliousness of youth.
It was said that there were bookstores on every block there, galleries exhibiting paintings and sculptures,
theaters, science labs, and symphony orchestras playing to packed halls. The University had allegedly
closed down its faculties of paranormal phenomena and antitechnology to make room for arts, sciences,
engineering, and business, and there were free public lectures on everything from differential geometry
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and molecular evolution to space engineering and nuclear physics. People ate real steaks with wine in
restaurants with candlelit tables; portrait painters worked at easels set up on the sidewalks; and string
quartets played in the streets.
It had been a tough decision in some ways; but sooner or later people had to take responsibility for their
own lives, Kenny thought to himself even if it did cause some upsets and misunderstandings in the short
term. His folks would miss the money he d been getting from working illegally at the computer store on
Saturdays to supplement their phoney welfare checks, but they d manage okay in the end. He was
satisfied in his own mind that he had met his responsibilities to the best of his ability; he owed them no
more. Eventually, the time came when you had to think of yourself. He d explained it all as best he could
in the letter that he d left in his room. They d come to understand in the end, he was sure . . . even though
it might take them a while.
RULES WITHIN RULES
Patrick and Michael Flynn were twin brothers, the sons of a family doctor who practiced in a sleepy
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