In the shadow of the Robert F. Kennedy Bridge, a stream of people snaked toward Randall’s Island Park, heading to the Governors Ball music festival. The attendees—mostly white, mostly middle class, mostly in their teens and early twenties—were in their summer best. The guys wore tennis shoes, shorts, and T-shirts. The girls’ getups were more elaborate: sneakers (Vans or Adidas), denim short shorts, a colorful halter or strapless top, and a mini-backpack or fanny pack (typically glittery). Those who dared accessorized with two buns atop their heads—the kind popularized by Björk in the nineties, a seeming lifetime ago.

On the festival grounds, a stone’s throw from the LaCroix Fizz Lounge, City Winery’s Rosé Hideaway, and the Kleenex Cabana, Aaron Ghitelman stood near the booth of the voter-registration organization HeadCount, working to capture the attention of passing festivalgoers. Ghitelman, the group’s director of communications, is a cheerful twenty-six-year-old with a red beard and the robustly timbred voice of your favorite camp counsellor. He peppers his speech with relevant abbreviations: “reg,” meaning registration; “last four,” meaning the final digits of a Social Security number.

“My grandmother votes in every election,” he said. “She’ll find her way to the D.M.V. even if it means taking three buses. But most people here”—he gestured at the fresh-faced revellers around him—“would not take three buses to register to vote. So we’re here to make it easy for them.” HeadCount, which defines itself as “a non-partisan organization that uses the power of music to register voters,” often stakes out concerts. The goal for the three-day festival was registering three hundred people.

Haley Stewart, a platinum-bobbed student at James Madison University, in Virginia, in a yellow crop top printed with the words “Written and Directed by Quentin Tarantino,” approached the booth. She was excited to register. “Last time, I didn’t vote, ’cause I’m the worst!” she said. “I kinda felt like I didn’t need to, but that’s a really bad thing, I’ve learned—to be, like, ‘Everyone else’s got it.’ ” She laughed. “This is so important! I’m a political-science major!”

Her boyfriend, Stephen, seemed less certain. “I normally don’t really pay attention to politics,” he said.

“It takes ninety seconds!” Ghitelman said. “Give me one good reason why you’re not going to register to vote. I’ll take it and let you go.” An awkward silence followed. “Do you have a reason?” Ghitelman pressed.

“He has no reason,” Stewart said.

“Might as well,” Stephen finally said, reaching for a pen. Two down!

“I don’t blame any young person who says, ‘I don’t think it makes a difference,’ ” Ghitelman said. “When you’re nineteen and you hear politicians talking about issues that are so far away, like Social Security, that’s not tangible. If politicians were up there talking about A.I. or about Juul, it would be completely impenetrable to our parents’ generation.”

Victoria Bieniasz, a college student from Brooklyn, wearing a silver Tiffany heart-tag necklace and an Apple Watch, wasn’t sure if she wanted to register. “I did get the papers in the mail, and I just sort of ripped them up,” she admitted. “I’m very, like, mellow with everything. I’m not saying I don’t care—I’m just saying I don’t care enough.”

“It literally takes ninety seconds,” Ghitelman began again. “You’re not obligated to vote. I think it’s cool if you vote, but, like, you’re not committing yourself to anything. You’re just opening the door to allow yourself to vote.”

Bieniasz’s friend Julia Sudol was registering. She had been too young to vote in the last election. “I wouldn’t have voted for Trump,” she said. “But I do think I’m moderately Republican.”

Bieniasz decided to register, too, but was unsure how to fill out her party affiliation. “In New York, I’d highly advise selecting a party, because you can’t vote in primaries unless you’re affiliated with a party,” Ghitelman explained. “Did anyone running for President in 2016 excite you at all?”

“She’d probably be a Bernie Sanders girl,” Sudol suggested.

“Me?” Bieniasz asked.

“If you had a chance to vote for him in 2016, would you have?” Ghitelman asked.

“The old guy? Yeah,” Bieniasz said. She laughed.

Near sunset, Ever Lasley and Grace Surgent approached the booth. They had just graduated from high school in Greenwich, Connecticut. A problem arose, however, when Surgent couldn’t remember her “last four.”

“No one at eighteen knows their Social Security digits,” she said.

“Can you call your mom, and she’ll be hyped that you’re doing this?” Ghitelman asked.

Surgent called. “Hey, Mom, can you tell me my Social Security number?” she asked, over the grinding guitars from the festival’s main stage.

“She can just read out the last four,” Ghitelman instructed.

“Mom. Can you text me the last four digits of my Social Security number?” Surgent repeated, more loudly.

“Because you’re trying to register to vote,” Ghitelman prompted.

“Oh—because I’m trying to register to vote,” Surgent said. “Pardon? What is it? Perfect. Thanks, Mom.”

A boy entered the booth, looking for Lasley and Surgent.

“Are you registered to vote?” Ghitelman asked.

“Yes,” the boy said.

“Fuck yeah!” Ghitelman said. The two high-fived. ♦