Union

Chris had a dream that he was flying and woke with a start at the absurdity of the idea. Jordan was at the wheel of the boxy, sea-blue sedan, and Chris was splayed out on the passenger seat. We passed into Pennsylvania along fast, narrow roads moments before midnight.

Chris shot a look over at Jordan, whose eyes were fixed on the slalom road ahead. It was empty except for us and the long-haul trucks on their way up and down another lonesome freeway.

Earlier that evening, we had meandered down the sidewalks of New York City toward Jordan's Volvo S60, which he had inherited from his aging grandfather.

"It's not much," Jordan said. "The steering grinds when you make a tight turn and it's missing a few parts, but it runs."

"Spacious," Chris said, opening the door.

"And she can't make a U-turn—feels like steering a boat."

Our plan for the week was to drive across the country from New York City to Berkeley, California, where Chris had grown up, a few hundred miles north of Jordan's family home in Los Angeles. As we shot down the avenues of the Upper East Side under orange streetlights, we threw around possible stops like Yellowstone, Glacier National Park, and parts of the Pacific Northwest.

"Let's get to Chicago by morning," Jordan had said as we merged onto Harlem River Drive, and Chris had laughed aloud. But there we were, pressing on toward the Midwest through the dark woods of the Poconos a few hours before dawn.

Chris had come to know over our brief eight-month friendship how Jordan operated according to his own mysterious logic. A bleary-eyed, unending drive seemed true to form. So Chris kept quiet as we drove into the gloom of morning. We had six more days on the road together, and there would be plenty to disagree about later on.

It had also occurred to Chris in those first hours just how little he knew about Jordan. The two of us had become close at law school, but school friends are often just acquaintances. And as Chris thought it over, he couldn't come up with Jordan's parents' names or even what kind of a driver Jordan was. Would this Marine make them drive all night, every night?

We slid down the grades of Pennsylvania hills, the tail lights of the trucks ahead making us squint through the windshield. Our own headlights illuminated white trees with feathery leaves on the shoulder. Purple mountains flanked the road. A moonless sky merged with forested ridgebacks decorated with eerie crosses lit from below by pale floodlights.

Jordan shifted his position in the driver's seat. Like Chris, he had his reservations. Had it been a mistake asking Chris to come along on this trip? Jordan had never driven cross-country before, and spending days on end in a close space with a law-school peer was unsettling. It didn't help that Chris had talked nervously for the first hour. Jordan had asked on a whim, and there we were, many miles down the way.

Distracted by his thoughts, Jordan let the car reach a pace that brought us close behind an 18-wheeler. The truck's brake lights flared; Jordan rode his own, and we drifted back. As we did, a second truck flashed past the passenger window and Chris flinched. For a beat, our car was boxed in by two multiton machines just as the less-harried truck in our lane caught a slick in the road, sending its trailer fishtailing toward the cab of the one to its right.

Chris gripped the arm rest. Jordan pushed down even harder on the brakes. And in the sickening moment of inertia—when the door panel of the truck beside us nearly collided with the flank of the one ahead—we both screamed.

Then, as fast as it had lost control of its load, the truck in front righted its lashing fishtail and took off down the road, the slower of the two trundled on into the night, and the two of us swallowed what was left of our shrieks.

Two years earlier, under the very different circumstances of Yale Law School, Jordan looked down at his trembling right hand. Why am I shaking? he thought. Behind him on the walls of the classroom were oil portraits of judges in black robes and academics in tweed suits in front of mahogany desks. Eighty pairs of eyes settled on him, including those of a professor a few dozen feet away.

Jordan felt exposed, and Jordan, like any Marine, did not like to be exposed.

"Mr. Blashek," the professor bellowed. "Where are you?"

It was the first day of law school in the fall of 2014. And out of the 200 or so new students that year, the civil procedure professor had asked Jordan the first question—or cold call—of the year.

"Yes, here," Jordan said.

"Mr. Blashek, why are laws necessary in a free and open society?"

Jordan's mind raced.

"Wait," she continued. "Before you answer, I have something for you."

The professor walked across the room, up some stairs, and handed Jordan a garbage bag. Jordan reached into the bag and pulled out a toy rifle. He gripped its handle and wrapped his finger around the trigger housing. A rifle—a real one—had been his near-constant companion on deployment in Afghanistan just a year earlier.

"Well?" the professor said.

Jordan's mind went blank.

"We have laws," Jordan said haltingly, "so that we don't resort to violence."

"Mr. Blashek," the professor continued. "Do you know how to use one of those?"

"A toy gun?"

"No, a real one."

"Yes, I do."

The professor's brow furrowed.

As she moved on with the lecture, a wave of relief washed over Jordan. He sat there, hand still wrapped around the dimpled grip, as his classmates scribbled notes and nibbled on pens.

Holding the cheap plastic gun, Jordan felt torn between two worlds. In one he was a student again, raising his hand, puzzling over exams, and writing papers. In the other he was an infantry officer with two tours of duty overseas and friends for whom he would give his life—and they for him.

And some of them still needed him. For weeks, texts had flashed across Jordan's phone at odd times of the day and night.

"Sir I'll be in clear water FL after noon," one read in an Afghan's new English.

The texts were from his Afghan interpreters, who spoke of college, booking plane tickets across the globe, and settling into new lives thousands of miles from home. Some were hopeful. Others, though, were less sanguine.

"I need someone to show me how to get room," one wrote. Jordan could picture the young man, who spoke trembling English, in a strange city where he knew no one, unable to find a place to escape the autumn frosts.

In that world, the one Jordan descended back into with each text, he was Sir or Captain Blashek. But at law school he was simply Jordan.

Slowly he started waking up later and letting his stubble grow longer. That change in appearance did little, however, to ease his sense of loss. He missed his fellow Marines, and the mission the uniform had given him.

At the start of his second year, Jordan was with several classmates at a local bar with a back patio illuminated by a string of light bulbs. On Friday nights that patio became the center of the law school's social calendar, a place where students of all years would mingle under the open sky and drink discounted Miller Lite and Sierra Nevada. Law students would usually occupy a few plastic tables beside a brick wall, which muffled the music from a student cabaret and the African American Cultural Center just beyond its rampart.

That night Jordan was making the rounds when a friend of his approached with a stranger by his side.

"I want you to meet someone," the friend said. "His name is Chris."

"You're Jordan?" Chris, the stranger, said. "We're supposed to know one another."

"Oh, right," Jordan said. "Chris."

Lauren, Jordan's cousin who had worked for the government, had told Jordan about Chris in a brief email mentioning that a young colleague was matriculating.

Chris looked nothing like what Jordan had expected. He had tousled hair. Studs protruded from both earlobes. A big smile was broken by the faint hint of a scar on his upper lip. He looked like a person who didn't take himself too seriously.

"It's nice to meet you," Jordan said.

A few hours earlier, Chris had gazed out on the New Haven Green from his studio in the Taft apartments. It was September, and the humidity of the summer had long ago subsided. At night Chris could throw open the windows and listen to the murmur wafting up from the streets below. The elms along College Street, once a brilliant green, had turned orange and red, and the streetlights, which always seemed to flicker, glowed through the thinning branches. Chris spent many nights looking out that window. That view was his sanctuary, and it helped soothe the fever of embarrassment raised by his first few days of class.

"Is there a Chris here?" a professor had said from her podium a day or two before.

Oh no, Chris thought from the back row.

"Chris?"

"Yes, he's—I'm here."

"Chris," the professor said, looking down at her notes. "Tell me, where does judicial review come from?"

It was a straightforward—some might say charitable—question. Chris had actually done all of his reading the night before, too. He had cracked an enormous red-bound tome on constitutional law and digested cases such as Marbury v. Madison and McCulloch v. Maryland. But as fast as Chris's brain raced, no answer emerged.

"The Supremacy Clause?" Chris offered.

The professor busied herself with her papers as Chris stewed over the answer he'd given, which was evidently incorrect.

"Well," the professor said at length. "Anyone else?"

That night, Chris puzzled over whether he was cut out for law school. For weeks he had pined for his former job at the State Department in Washington, D.C., where he had a purpose as a small part of a much larger machine. Each day he was engaged in a project to make things better for people around the world. Law school had not yet given him that same thrill, and Chris felt its absence like a hunger.

Away from this work, Chris gravitated toward writing. He read Edward R. Murrow's This Is London, the journalist's wartime reporting from a city under siege, and Timothy Crouse's Boys on the Bus, about the reporters covering the 1972 presidential election. Chris came to believe that getting back to his own reporting might restore that sense of purpose. The only hurdle was the classes and exams he had voluntarily taken on all over again.

One month in and Chris felt far from what mattered.

And so, later that night, Chris made his way to that very same patio bar where even the most hard-charging law-school types eased somewhat, or never showed up at all.

"I want you to meet someone," his friend said, approaching a student with a crew cut and broad shoulders. "Chris, this is Jordan."

Jordan had a face dotted with freckles and a military-trained confidence similar to what Chris had come to recognize living on Capitol Hill, where Marines and soldiers sported telltale shaved scalps and taupe T-shirts. But Jordan also had a warmth about him that broke through the studied posture and Marine gait.

"It's a pleasure," Chris said.

Jordan stuck out his hand.

"When you get settled, let me buy you a drink," Jordan offered.

"It's a plan."

A few weeks later, Jordan arrived at an Irish pub and settled in at a wobbly table with a dewy surface. Chris found him there and took a seat.

The conversation sputtered to life while the bartender busied himself with the drinks.

"So how's it been for you?" Chris asked. "Law school and all."

"It's funny," Jordan replied. "If you had asked me that just a few months ago, I would've given you a very different answer. The first year was rough."

The bartender put two tumblers on the table.

"But second year has been much better," Jordan said. "I've made some great friends here, and found a few professors who are supportive of what I want to do."

"And what's that?"

"A lot of things," Jordan said with a smile.

Chris waited for an answer as Jordan took a sip of his drink.

"Have you heard of Jim Webb?" Jordan continued.

"The senator from Virginia?"

"Yeah, former. That's the life I want, or something close to it. He was a Marine, wrote half a dozen novels, went to law school, became a journalist, and was appointed Secretary of the Navy. He eventually ran for Senate to oppose the Iraq War."

The bartender clinked glasses behind us and the street beyond shed noise from the passersby—couples draped over one another, raucous crew boys in turtlenecks, and professor types with swollen briefcases.

"How about you?" Jordan said.

"Write," Chris said.

"Heck of a place to end up, then."

"Yeah, a bit of a left turn. When I dropped out of grad school—"

"Dropped out?"

"Yeah, I went straight to Oxford after graduating from college, because I wanted to be a war correspondent and haunt those London bars where war reporters like Dexter Filkins and Marie Colvin used to gather. But instead I was writing papers about Foucault, so I left."

"What happened to becoming a war reporter?" Jordan asked.

"I still want to," Chris said. "Maybe someday."

One drink turned into three, which was something of a surprise to the two of us, since all we knew ahead of time was that we didn't share politics. Chris was a Democrat, Jordan a Republican. Yet in that moment our partisan allegiances seemed less relevant. There was something else at work—Jordan was grappling with a recent heartbreak, and Chris was clawing his way out of something similar. Things we could no longer control had eroded our guards. So we discussed what was deeper and unvarnished. Things like our most cherished memories, the influence of our mothers, and whether law school was the right path. We talked about history and learned that we shared a passion for great novels and beautifully rendered reporting.

It was a unique moment—a fortunate one for forging new friendships.

"Jim Webb," Chris said later on. "You said he's your hero, right?"

"Yeah."

"Interesting."

"Why?"

"He's a Democrat."

After that first night, Jordan drew Chris into a larger circle of friends and classmates. One evening while the weather was still warm, he took Chris along to a curbside patio at the Owl Shop, a New Haven smoking establishment. Almost every Tuesday, Jordan and his friend Hilary met for a cigar, a glass of whisky, and a set by The Red Planet, a Grateful Dead cover band. There, she and Jordan would unwind together, which to them meant spirited debates over another kind of spirit. Chris tagged along more and more and, as he grew familiar with the back and forth, he even felt like he might belong.

On those nights Chris would often talk about the stories he wanted to write, and Jordan the companies he hoped to build.

Still, our political differences were there; as we sat at the Owl Shop's curbside patio, those views emerged into full view every once in a while.

"It really bothers me that Democrats frame every argument about climate change as if the opposition were either ignorant 'deniers' or corporate shills," Jordan said one warm fall night.

Jordan often argued with his more liberal classmates and had developed a measured tone for navigating delicate conversations.

"It belittles legitimate criticism," he continued.

"But what is that legitimate criticism?" Chris asked.

Chris was more hesitant to engage this way with Jordan and his classmates.

"All I'm saying," Jordan responded, "is it's okay to express humility about what we can know or predict about something as complex as the earth's climate over decades."

"But there's complete consensus among experts on this issue," Chris said. "How does one quibble with 97 percent of climate scientists?"

"That number is misleading. And not a single climate model has made an accurate prediction to date."

"The evidence is overwhelming that climate change is real and man-made."

"I'm not denying that humans have an impact on climate, maybe even a huge one, but that's not the issue. The issue is what to do about it. Dramatically slowing economic growth to prevent some unknown harm a century from now causes serious harm to people today, especially the most disadvantaged."

"But not doing anything would be catastrophic. Millions of people could die."

"How can you know that? We have decades to adjust, and you have no idea what technologies will be developed in the meantime."

"That's a hell of a risk to take. And nearly every climate scientist has said that we have a small window of time right now before the damage becomes irreparable."

Chris's face had turned crimson, while Jordan grew more combative.

"That sounds like scaremongering. If you had reasonable solutions, I'd be all for it. But nothing proposed by the Left would actually solve anything."

"What? There are dozens of policy options. How about a carbon tax…investment in more clean power…more global commitments to reduce emissions?"

"Most of those solutions affect low-income Americans by slowing growth. And none of them take into account the fact that countries like China and India can't afford to give up oil and coal when they have millions of people dying in poverty."

"Look, the U.S. has to lead by example if we want to make progress. We can't be the worst offender on carbon emissions. We can't set the tone like that."

"Leading doesn't mean we have to stifle domestic opposition," Jordan said. "We've made many bad decisions in the name of U.S. leadership because legitimate dissent was suppressed."