I was still at Carolina, in law school, and at my old fraternity house the night of the lottery (Pi Lambda Phi). We had a pool, for a few dollars each, that was there for the guy with the lowest number. No. 26, I think it was, and he got the money "to buy a bus ticket to Canada." Like most middle class kids, we did not expect the war to take us.
It was most interesting to see the effect of the higher numbers on a few of the guys who had barely been staying academically eligible in order to keep their student deferments. One in particular who drew a high number was gone from school soon thereafter, free of Vietnam worries.
I ended up being called for my draft physical that next summer, and failing it miraculously. The razor’s edge between fates seems so clear now.