The four of them were perched on barstools under the sign that said "Rosie's." It was late into the night and most of the other reunion guests had long ago retired. But the old gang was still nursing their drinks, reluctant to forfeit the company for sleep. Their one concession to the lateness of the hour was that each was dressed in their bathrobe.
They were cackling and laughing, more than a little drunk. Since the bartender had long ago retired, B.J., in his baby blue bathrobe, was poring them another round.
Wiping away tears that laughter had driven from his eyes, Charles mused philosophical between wheezes. "You know, there is one thing that camp had that Boston seems to lack."
"Fleas?" Hawkeye suggested.
Charles, also in blue bathrobe, coughed out a laugh and shook his head. "No."
B.J. shoved a full glass toward each of them. "Boston has fleas."
"What then, Charles?" Margaret, in her pink bathrobe, lifted her drink.
"Friends."
Hawkeye, clad in his iconic red bathrobe, peered around Margaret at the other doctor. "Careful, Charles. You just called us friends."
The bald head nodded. "That's what I meant, too. I had a hundred friends back home." He peered thoughtfully at the group. "But none who meant so much."
Margaret squeezed his arm, sharing both the experience and the sentiment. She raised her scotch in a toast. "To friends."
"Here, here."
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