Arriving home, Jack lost no time. He took his stairs two at a time. Finding a drunk, homeless person asleep on the first landing didn’t faze him. He just stepped over the man and continued. With his anxiety Jack needed exercise, and the sooner he got out on the basketball court the happier he’d be.

Jack hesitated briefly at his door. It seemed to be in the same shape as he’d left it. He unlocked it and peered into the apartment. It, too, seemed undisturbed. Somewhat superstitiously Jack walked over to the kitchen and looked in. He was relieved to see that no one was there.

In the bedroom Jack pulled out his basketball gear: oversized sweatpants, a turtleneck, and a sweater. He quickly changed. After lacing up his hightops, he grabbed a headband, a basketball, and was back out the door.

Saturday afternoon was always a big day at the playground, provided the weather cooperated. Usually twenty to thirty people showed up ready to run, and this particular Saturday was no exception. The morning rain had long since stopped. As Jack approached the court he counted fourteen people waiting to play. That meant he’d probably have to wait through two more games beyond the present match before he could hope to join.

Jack nodded subdued greetings to some of the people he recognized. The etiquette required that no emotion be shown. After he’d stood on the sidelines for the appropriate amount of time he asked who had winners. He was told that David had winners. Jack was acquainted with David.

Careful to suppress the eagerness he felt, Jack sidled up to David.

“You got winners?” Jack asked, pretending to be uninterested.

“Yeah, I got winners,” David said. He went through some minor ducking and weaving that Jack had learned to recognize as posturing. Jack had also learned by sore experience not to imitate it.

“You got five?” Jack asked.

David already had his team lined up so Jack had to go through the same process with the next fellow who had winners. That was Spit, whose nickname was based on one of his less endearing mannerisms. Luckily for Jack, Spit only had four players and since he knew Jack’s outside shooting ability, he agreed to add Jack to his roster.

With his entrance into the game now assured, Jack took his ball to one of the unused side baskets and began warming up. He had a mild headache and his jaw ached, but otherwise he felt better than he’d expected. He’d been more concerned about his stomach once he started running around, but that didn’t bother him in the slightest.

While Jack was busy shooting foul shots Warren showed up. After he’d gone through the same process that Jack had done in order to get into the game, he wandered over to where Jack was practicing.

“Hey, Doc, what’s happening?” Warren asked. He snatched the ball from Jack’s hands and quickly tossed in a shot that hit nothing but net. Warren’s movements were uncannily fast.

“Not much,” Jack said, which was the correct reply. Warren’s question was really a greeting in disguise.

They shot for a while in a ritual fashion. First Warren would shoot until he missed, which wasn’t often. Then Jack would do the same. While one was shooting the other rebounded.

“Warren, let me ask you a question,” Jack said during one of his turns shooting. “You ever hear of a gang by the name of the Black Kings?”

“Yeah, I think so,” Warren said. He fed Jack the ball after Jack had put in one of his patented long-distance jump shots. “I think they’re a bunch of losers from down near the Bowery. How come you’re asking?”

“Just curious,” Jack said. He sank another long jump shot. He was feeling good.

Warren snatched the ball out of the air as it came through the basket. But he didn’t pass it back to Jack. Instead he walked it to Jack.

“What do you mean, ‘curious’?” Warren asked. He drilled Jack with his gun-barrel eyes. “You ain’t been curious about any gangs before.”

One of the other things that Jack knew about Warren was that he was keenly intelligent. Had he had the opportunity, Jack was sure he’d be a doctor or a lawyer or some other professional.

“I happened to see it tattooed on a guy’s forearm,” Jack said.

“The guy dead?” Warren asked. He was aware of what Jack did for a living.

“Not yet,” Jack said. He rarely risked sarcasm with his playground acquaintances, but on this occasion it had just slipped out.

Warren regarded him warily and continued to hold the ball. “You pulling my chain, or what?”

“Hell no,” Jack said. “I may be white, but I ain’t stupid.”

Warren smiled. “How come you got banged up on your jaw?”

Warren didn’t miss a trick. “Just caught an elbow,” Jack said. “I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Warren handed over the ball. “Let’s warm up with a little one-on-one,” he said. “Hit-or-miss for the ball.”

Warren got in the game before Jack, but Jack eventually played, and played well. Spit’s players seemed unbeatable, to the chagrin of Warren, who had to play against them on several occasions. By six o’clock Jack was exhausted and soaked to the skin.

Jack was perfectly happy to leave when everyone else departed en masse for dinner and their usual Saturday-night revelry. The basketball court would be empty until the following afternoon.

A long, hot postgame shower was a distinct pleasure for Jack. When he was finished he dressed in clean clothes and looked into his refrigerator. It was a sad scene. All his beer had been drunk by the Black Kings. As far as food was concerned he was limited to an old wedge of cheddar cheese and two eggs of dubious age. Jack closed the refrigerator. He wasn’t all that hungry anyway.

In the living room Jack sat on his threadbare couch and picked up one of his medical journals. His usual evening routine was to read until nine-thirty or ten and then fall asleep. But tonight he was still restless despite the exercise, and he found he couldn’t concentrate.

Jack tossed the journal aside and stared at the wall. He was lonely, and although he was lonely almost every night, he felt it more keenly at that moment. He kept thinking about Terese and how compassionate she’d been the night before.

Jack impulsively went to the desk, got out the phone book, and called Willow and Heath. He wasn’t sure if the phones would be manned after hours, but eventually someone answered. After several wrong extensions he finally got Terese on the phone.

With his heart inexplicably pounding in his chest, Jack casually told her he was thinking of getting something to eat.

“Is this an invitation?” Terese questioned.

“Well,” Jack said hesitantly. “Maybe you’d like to come along, provided you haven’t eaten yet.”

“This is the most roundabout invitation I’ve gotten since Marty Berman asked me to the junior prom,” Terese said with a laugh. “You know what he did? He used the conditional. He said: ‘What would you say if I asked you?’ ”

“I guess Marty and I have some things in common,” Jack said.

“Hardly,” Terese said. “Marty was a skinny runt. But as for dinner, I’ll have to take a rain check. I’d love to see you, but you know about this deadline we have. We’re hoping that we can get it under control tonight. I hope you understand.”

“Absolutely,” Jack said. “No problem.”

“Call me tomorrow,” Terese said. “Maybe in the afternoon we can get together for coffee or something.”

Jack promised he’d call and wished her good luck. Then he hung up the phone, feeling even lonelier for having made an effort to be sociable after so many years and having been turned down.

Surprising himself anew, Jack found Laurie’s number and called her. Trying to cover his nervousness with humor, he told her that the group of nuns he was expecting had to cancel.

“Does that mean you’d like to come to dinner?” Laurie asked.

“If you’ll have me,” Jack said.

“I’d be delighted,” Laurie said.