"Some evening, huh, Doc." The heavyset evening doorman called Ben stood under the canopy, watching him approach.

"Sure is," Maslow agreed.

Ben stepped forward to open the heavy glass door for him.

"Thanks." Maslow waved, then crossed the cavernous lobby, newly decorated in mauve and cream. The elevator took him to the fifth floor, where his one-bedroom apartment faced the side street. Hurrying now, he peeled off his clothes, grabbed socks, Nike Airs, shorts, T-shirt from a shelf in the closet and pulled them on. In the kitchen he filled his water bottle from the tap and put into his fanny pack a couple of granola bars, his apartment keys, his cell phone, and the slender canister of pepper spray that looked like a pen. He didn't take his wallet. He didn't need money to run, and he certainly did not consider the problems of identification should something happen to him. He was a New Yorker and thought nothing could possibly happen to him. He was in and out of his apartment in less than six minutes.

In the lobby, Ben opened the front door for him again and scanned the sky. "I don't know," he said, shaking his head. "Watch out for that rain. They say there's more to come."

"Not tonight," Maslow replied confidently. He picked up his feet and trotted across the street toward the park, his heart lifting at the prospect of an activity that always eased his distress.

Twilight was his favorite time of day in the park, and voices on the other side of the wall indicated he was not alone. Then, just before he entered the park, he saw his patient.

She jumped up from the bench and came over. "Hi."

"Hello, Allegra." He wanted to say no more. He wanted to slip by, but she wouldn't let him pass.

"I want to tell you something."

"Why don't you tell me in session tomorrow," he said gently.

"Fine," she replied angrily. "Whatever." Angry again, she took off down Central Park West.