“You do now.”

“You? You live in L.A.”

“You’ve never heard of the telephone? You’ll call me every morning, ten minutes after you wake up, before your head starts spinning. Plus, when we need a face to face, I can run up here or you can come down to L.A.”

“I hate L.A.,” I said, automatically.

He grinned. “Spoken like a true San Franciscan. We start tomorrow, okay?”

I nodded. “Thank you.”

“Throwing out the lifeline is what we do, and it works both ways. By helping you stay sober, I also help myself.”

As I lay in bed that night, listening to my roommates snore and fart in their sleep, something shifted inside of me. The clouds of fear and anxiety parted just a bit and I was warmed for a moment by what felt very much like hope.

I worked out of an office on the second floor of a converted Edwardian on Market Street, halfway between the Castro and Hayes Valley. Mine was the smallest in a suite of offices I shared with three other lawyers. I paid more rent on the office than I did on my basement apartment. Between the two rents and my share of our secretary’s salary and the utilities at both places, I was eating at a lot of dives and greasy spoons. I looked good though. I had a closet filled with bespoke suits, custom made shirts, handmade shoes and gorgeous ties that had belonged to a friend of Larry’s whom AIDS had killed just as I was leaving the halfway house. They were the nicest clothes I had ever owned but I’d been reluctant to accept them.

It’s either you or Goodwill, Larry had told me, adding with a smirk, Robbie would have loved to get into your pants, so I’m sure he wouldn’t mind you getting into his. When I still demurred, he said, You can’t catch AIDS by wearing the guy’s suits. I almost asked, How can you be sure? but instead I accepted the gift. Still, even though Larry assured me the clothes had been cleaned after Robbie’s death, I’d spent money I didn’t have getting them laundered and dry cleaned before I wore them.