9BOSTON, AUGUST 1969: TONY was tense, cold, wet. He’d dreamed again but was again unable to recall the dream. Scattered flickerings of city light came in through the narrow French doors. He looked at Linda. In sleep her mouth maintained a slight smile that warmed him but which could not dispel his tension. Quietly he pulled back the sheet, rolled off the bed, fell into a crouch. He scanned the room, the French doors that led to the two-by-six-foot third-floor balcony, the transom light of the interior bedroom door. It was four o’clock in the morning. He heard squealing tires on Commonwealth, the crashing of garbage cans in the alley behind their apartment, the moan of an airliner circling, awaiting clearance to land at Logan, and the barely audible riffs of Judy Collins’s “Vietnam Love Son
