Through the open window in the room next to his he heard Adam Silverstone unlock the door, come in and then go out. There was the sound of a dime in the coin drop of the wall telephone in the hall, and then Silverstone asked somebody if he could speak to Gabrielle.

It isn’t like eavesdropping, he thought; what the hell else can I do—jump off the roof?

“Hello, Gaby? Adam. Adam Silverstone. Remember, from Atlanta? . . .”

He laughed. “I told you I’d be up. I’ve got a residency at County Hospital . . .

“Oh? I have this thing about writing. Really. I don’t write to anybody . . .

“I did, too. It was wonderful. I’ve thought about you a lot.”

He sounded very young, Spurgeon thought, and without the confidence he displayed as a doctor. He sucked at the can of beer, thinking about the kind of life this white boy must have had. Jew, he thought, that’s a Jewish name. Probably doting parents, new bicycle, dancing school, temple, Colonial house, Adam stay in your room that’s a nasty word, bring her home dear let us meet her.

“Look, I’d like to see you. How about tomorrow night? . . .

“Oh,” he said flatly, and Spurgeon, listening, grinned sympathetically in the dark.

“No, I’m on the ward again by then, thirty-six hours on, thirty-six off. And the next couple of times I’m off I’m going to have to do a little moonlighting, to make some loot . . .”

“Well, I’ll get to see you eventually,” he said. “I’m a patient man. I’ll call you next week. Be a good girl.”

There was the sound of the receiver returned to the cradle and slow footsteps back into the room.

The white boy’s ass was dragging. Chief Resident or not, his first shift in this place was probably as rough as mine, Spurgeon thought. “Hey,” he said loudly. He had to say it twice before Silverstone looked out the window.

Adam saw Robinson sitting on the roof in his BVD’s with his knees crossed like a black Buddha and he grinned.

“Come on out. Beer.”

He came and Spurgeon handed him a beaded can. He sat on his haunches and drank and sighed, closing his eyes.

“That was quite an initiation we had,” Spurgeon said.

“Amen. Jesus. It will be days before we know where the hell everything is around here. They might at least have given us a tour.”

“I heard somewhere that more people die in hospitals the first week in July, when new residents and interns come in, than any other time.”

“Wouldn’t surprise the hell out of me,” Adam said. He drank again and shook his head. “That Miss Fultz.”

“That Silverstone.”

“What’s the Chief Resident like?” Silverstone said blandly.

“Sometimes I like him, sometimes I don’t.”

They found suddenly that they were laughing.

“I like the way you handle patients,” Spurgeon said. “You take pretty good care of yourself.”

“I’ve been taking care of myself for a long time,” Silverstone said.