When I asked Harvey, part of me actually wanted him to say it was because of money.  Then his justification would be in concrete terms, which could easily be argued.  He would be making a lot of money--I heard him mention to some neighbors once that in four years his student loans would be taken care of.  I can't hope to taste the sweetness of leveled debt for several decades, at the rate I'm going.  He didn't directly blame finances, however, when I cornered him.  He laughed and whipped out something abstract: "I didn't really feel like I had a lot of options."   He sounded regretful, and I wondered why that surprised me.  I had never asked him to explain his decision before.  Maybe it was to protect him from having to defend himself against my accusing tongue.  How could I blame him when I hadn't been in his life at the time he'd enlisted?  It seemed beyond our control, as if fate had cast her spell and was piloting us around.  We were two kids on a playdate, dreading the moment when his parents would come and take him away. 
    We were eating spaghetti when I set down my fork and said, "I can't do this."
    Harvey looked up at me, his normally sanguine face turning grave. 
    "If you're really leaving," I said.  "Then I'm leaving first."  I walked to the door in a fury, and when I opened it, the birds scattered from their feeding spots as if they had been caught doing something bad.  There was no sound of movement behind me, and without looking back I got in my car and drove to Tony's.