“You have two DUIs, Morgan. By the age of not quite twenty-one, you had two.” Rebecca leaned forward again. “You crippled a young woman. Permanently. I want to hear you say it: I have a drinking problem.”

I swallowed, the image of Emily rising up in my mind again.

“I sometimes used to drink too much,” I said. It was the best I could do, and Rebecca seemed to give up the battle.

“That’s a list of local meetings.” She pointed to the paper she’d handed me. Then she gave me yet another sheet. “And here’s a log for you to keep track of the meetings with spaces for the dates and locations. You need to have someone verify you were there with their phone number, and turn it in to me when we meet.”

I imagined going up to a stranger and asking him or her to sign my log. “I really don’t need AA now,” I said. “Wouldn’t you rather know I’m working hard than going to—”

“This is not negotiable, Morgan,” Rebecca said. “Find a local group as soon as possible and make that connection.”

I caved. “All right,” I said.

“You and I will meet every couple of weeks at first and I’ll be stopping by your home … the place you’re staying or your place of employment … the art gallery … some time unannounced.”

“That’s fine.”

“You may not leave Chowan County for a year.”

“What about when I finish my work at the gallery?” I asked. “My work on the mural?”

“We’ll talk about it then. One step at a time,” she said, handing me an appointment card. “I’ll see you here again in two weeks.”

I nodded, then started getting to my feet.

“We’re not finished,” Rebecca said, and I lowered myself to the chair again.

Rebecca opened a box with what looked like one of those ankle bracelets that monitored people under house arrest.

“Do you know what this is?” Rebecca asked.

“Do I have to wear that?” I asked in disbelief. “I’m not under house arrest, am I?”

“It’s an alcohol monitor, and yes you do need to wear it,” Rebecca said. “It goes on your ankle and reacts to your sweat. You take the smallest sip of booze and I’ll know about it even before you feel the buzz. You don’t take it off, not for showering, not for anything. I’ll know if you drink and I’ll know if you tamper with it. I’ll know if you try to stick a piece of plastic wrap between it and your skin. You’ll wear it for six months and then we’ll reevaluate.”

I couldn’t imagine being tied to that thing for six months … but then I thought of Emily Maxwell. I imagined her tied to a wheelchair for life.

“All right,” I said.