Once he was outside, he realized that he had more than an hour to kill before the next Boston train. So he decided to walk a bit to get some fresh air. Crossing Madison and Fifth, he entered Central Park.

The trees were bare and there was snow on the ground, but the cold air was dry and bracing. As he went over the day in his mind, he decided that it could have been a lot worse. He hadn’t criticized his father or lost his temper, even once. Their meeting had been loving and harmonious. Thank God for that.

He wondered how long his father had got. Surely some months, at least. He’d visit him plenty more times, and make his final days as gentle a passing as he could.

He’d been walking about ten minutes when he saw the guy with the red baseball hat standing by a tree.

He was a black man, over six feet tall, wearing a long black coat and a black scarf he’d wrapped around his neck many times. His narrow shoulders were hunched. As Gorham came near, the man looked at him, but obviously without much hope. As he passed, the automatic “Smoke? Grass?” came without conviction. Out of habit, equally, Gorham walked sternly by, trying to ignore him.

He’d gone a little way before his father’s words came back to him. “It helps with the pain.” He’d read about that, people with cancer taking marijuana. Why not? After all, they took other drugs to ease the pain. Maybe his doctor could give him dope on prescription. Could he do that? Gorham had no idea. Presumably not, or Charlie wouldn’t be trying to buy it in the park.

He looked at his watch. Wasn’t it time to be getting along to his train? Not really.

What was the law, exactly? The guy with the red baseball hat could be arrested, certainly, for selling the stuff. But what about if you bought some? In possession of an illegal substance—they arrested people for that, he was sure. What was it going to do to his chances of getting into a bank if he got arrested in Central Park? Not a good idea. He walked on.

So he was going to let his father suffer? His poor father who, in his own crazy way, had been good to him all his life? His father who had nothing in common with him, but treated him with all the kindness he might have reserved for a soulmate? The father who quietly ignored the little moments of irritation that he himself had been unable to conceal entirely even in the company of a dying man?

He turned round. The guy with the red baseball hat was still there. He looked about. Unless there was somebody hiding behind a tree, this section of the park was empty. He walked toward the dealer.

The guy looked at him questioningly. He had a thin face and a small, straggly beard.

“How much?”