Already he was so used to the dark glasses that when Joanie kidded him about them—her bare legs stretched out before her on the blanket, bologna sandwich in one hand, bottle of Bud in the other—he had to reach up and feel the frames to know whether they were there or not. “Jesus,” she said, laughing, “you’re really a member of the club now. Or gang. It’s a gang, isn’t it, like in West Side Story, us against them? Jets and Sharks, right?”

“Right,” he said, picturing the actors circling each other and waving their knives. “And we’re the Jets because the rest of the department, McClelland and Kellard and the rest, they’re Sharks. Definitely Sharks.”

Corey was a hundred yards off, a moving shadow flinging the ball up as high as he could and then running to catch it, over and over. The sun was a steady presence, promise of the season to come. There were birds, squirrels, children, couples with picnic baskets and transistor radios.

“You ought to get a pair for yourself,” he said. “You’re part of the gang now too.”

“Absolutely,” she said, raising a hand to shade her eyes. “I really do need something to hide behind.”

“I’m not hiding,” he protested, swiping the glasses from his face and immediately regretting it. He felt as if he’d just stepped out of a closet.

“Speaking of which,” she said, drawing her knees up to her chin and at the same time reaching down to slip off her sandals, “shouldn’t there be another session coming up?” She paused to rub the bridge of one foot, looked beyond him to where Corey was chasing after the ball, then dropped her hand and raised her eyes to his. “If we’re part of the gang now, shouldn’t we act like it?”

They went to Tim’s the next three Saturdays in a row. There was no hesitation, no awkwardness—as soon as they stepped in the door they felt a sense of belonging, of rightness, that superseded everything. This was where they were meant to be and these people, the inner circle—the gang—were their closest friends on earth because they shared in a communion no one else, least of all the stiffs in the Psych Department, could begin to imagine. And if their weekday routine was dull the Saturday night get-togethers let them blow off steam—and more, much more, to open their minds to all of creation, to get loose, go deep, inject a little adventure into their lives. Joanie needed it even more than he did. And he’d held out on her, which only made him feel bad, as if he’d betrayed her, and he hadn’t, or not that he could remember.