Chicago handed the new joint to Koestler’s baboon, who greedily inhaled the smoke, and for the next few moments the whole curious party sat around the table attempting to suppress coughs.

“I’m so fucking high,” Indiana said. “Jesus.”

“A minute ago I was drunk; now you can’t tie your shoelaces,” Hartman said. “Poofter!”

“Let’s have a little music,” said Koestler. He flipped on the shortwave and fiddled with the dial. “I have got nothing but bloody Radio Ireland recently, half Gaelic, and then an hour of bird calls! Needs a new battery.” He slapped at the radio and then, with Dixieland accompaniment, an Irish tenor was singing, “I’ve flown around the world in a plane—”

Koestler joined in. “I’ve settled revolutions in Spain—”

He flipped the dial and slapped the set until he hooked into American Armed Forces Radio. After an announcer listed the major-league ball scores, Jimi Hendrix came on blaring “Red House.”

The men sat back and listened to the music. Koestler popped up to turn up the volume, his weather-beaten face collapsing inward as he took in another draught of marijuana smoke, closed his eyes, tossed his head back, and got into the song. He was soon snaking about the duckboard floor of the gazebo, playing air guitar to the music.

“Hey, if Father Stuart could only see us now,” Hartman said. “Father Stuart can see you now!” The priest flipped on an electric torch and stepped out of the darkness up into the gazebo. “This is a hospital, not a fraternity house! Kindly remember that. People are trying to sleep. Can’t you think of others for a change?” He turned to the new doctors. “I’m glad to see that you two lads are off to an auspicious beginning.”

The priest, dressed in a bathrobe and flip-flops, snatched the shortwave, switched it off, slung it under his arm, and clopped back toward the lodge. The beam of his flashlight, which was tucked between his shoulder and chin, panned the wisteria bushes, the ground, the sky, and the buildings of the compound as he attempted to push down the telescopic antenna on the radio. For a moment, the men sat in stunned silence. This was followed by an explosion of laughter.

Koestler started up as if to go after the priest, but then thought better of it and sat down at the table. He reached into his bush shirt and removed another can of sardines, handing them to Babbitt, who quickly tore off the lid, ate the fish, and then licked the olive oil from the inside of the can. “You might not believe it, but Georgie can open a can of sardines even with a key,” Koestler said proudly.

“Fuck, he’s got the munchies,” Indiana said, as he fell into a paroxysm of laughter.