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like one of those movies where an atomic bomb went off and a small group of human survivors were left to live off the land.
    I spotted a newspaper on the ground, and I picked it up.

    Okay, I knew when it was. Obviously, it was too late to help the Yankees win the 1960 World Series. My dad would have to deal with that. But it wasn’t too late to help Roberto Clemente. He would be alive until December 31, 1972.
    I flipped through the paper until I found the sports section.

    Okay. The Pittsburgh Pirates were playing the Cincinnati Reds tonight. At 8:05. The Reds were the home team. So Roberto Clemente must be in Cincinnati.
    That’s where I had to go.
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    Getting a huge crowd of people out of a large field at the same time isn’t easy. Some of the hippies had cars; but they weren’t going anywhere, because the road was one huge traffic jam. Other people had bikes, motorcycles, or roller skates. Many were on foot.
    Lots of kids were looking to catch a ride with somebody else who was heading in the same direction. People were holding up hand-lettered signs: NEW YORK CITY . FLORIDA . CHICAGO . And so on. One guy held up a sign that simply read ANYWHERE USA .
    Then I spotted a small sign that said CINCY on it.
    It was held by a pretty girl in a flowered dress. She had long, straight brown hair; a white headband; and a string of beads around her neck. Shedidn’t look much older than me. I wondered why her parents would let her come all the way to New York by herself.
    â€œDo you live in Cincinnati?” I asked her.
    â€œYeah,” she replied. “You?”
    â€œNo, but I need to get there tonight.”
    â€œWhat’s the rush?” she asked me.
    â€œIt’s a long story,” I told her. I didn’t feel like going into all the details unless I really had to.
    â€œWhat’s your name?” she asked.
    â€œJoe Stoshack,” I said. “But you can call me Stosh. Everybody does.”
    â€œYou look kinda straight, Stosh,” she said.
    â€œStraight?” I said. “Would it be better if I was crooked?”
    She laughed, and then I realized what she meant. I didn’t look like a hippie. I didn’t have bell bottoms, flowers, love beads, or any of that other hippie gear.
    â€œI guess I am,” I admitted.
    â€œThat’s cool,” she said. “You’re doing your own thing. Different strokes for different folks. My name is Sunrise.”
    Sunrise? I’d never heard of anybody named Sunrise.
    â€œIs that your real name?” I asked.
    â€œNo,” she said, giggling.
    â€œWhat’s your real name?”
    â€œI hate my name!” she said.
    â€œIt must be pretty horrible,” I said, “What is it, Barbara Hitler or something?”
    She giggled again. She had a nice smile.
    â€œIt’s Sarah Simpson,” she said.
    â€œUgh! Disgusting!” I said. “No wonder you changed it. How could anybody go through life with a name like Sarah Simpson?”
    She knew I was teasing her, and she hit me playfully with her CINCY sign.
    â€œI like Sunrise better,” she said. “It means a new day, y’know? Whatever mistakes you made yesterday are forgotten. You get to start all over again. That’s what I’m trying to do.”
    â€œWell, I think Sarah Simpson is a perfectly nice name,” I told her. “But I’ll call you Sunrise if you want.”
    She giggled again and took my hand.
    Let me admit something right now. I’ve never had a girlfriend. I’ve never been out on a date with a girl. I’ve certainly never kissed a girl. Usually, in school, when I have to talk to a girl, I’m totally tongue-tied and make an idiot of myself. But I felt completely comfortable with this girl. I had known Sarah “Sunrise” Simpson for about 30 seconds, and I was already in love. She told me she was 14, and it didn’t seem to bother her that I was a year