I spin the dreidel, thinking. “I knew my mom wanted me there. That she wants me to see things from a different perspective. I tried to do that for her.”

“And what did you see?”

“That I almost erased one of the last traces of her on Earth.”

“So you want to get sober for her?”

I can see where this is going.

“I know I have to get sober for me. But she’s my talisman, you know?” I run a finger over her evil eye, which might have saved my life. I mean, Mae and Drew and Nate saved my life, but still. I like to think Mom had a part in it.

“Okay. We can work with that.”

Once we’ve got coffee and bagel chips and bowls of matzo ball soup, Jo takes a couple bites, then leans forward. “Ask me anything.”

“What is this, exactly? Me and you.”

Jo was matched with me through NA, some Narcotics Anonymous version of Tinder, where they put the newly sober with the not-so-newly sober in the hopes that the newly sober don’t fuck up again. The hospital figured it all out for me, gave me some options. I liked Jo’s hair and the fact she said fuck in the email she wrote me, so I chose her.

“Well, as your sponsor, I’m basically just here for you, man. Any time you think you might use, you call me,” she says. “Or text, whatever. Modern world! Any time you need someone to talk to, or have questions, or need help working the Steps—I’m your girl.”

The Steps. Right.

Whenever I detox, they’re all about the whole Twelve-Step Program thing. Work the Steps, they say.

Step one, I’ve got: I admitted I was powerless against the pills—it’s why I did what I did at the angel statue. Obviously that’s not how you’re supposed to work the Steps.

“What step would you say you’re on?” she asks me. She slurps her soup, then gives a satisfied smack of her lips.

“Two,” I say.

“‘We believe that a power greater than ourselves can restore us to sanity,’” Jo says, quoting the pamphlet. “You agree with that?”

My mouth is full of soup, so it gives me an excuse to think. The soup’s good. Mom never tried making matzo ball.

“I believe in a power greater than myself,” I say. “Whatever She is.”

If Dad had a grave, he’d be rolling in it. I don’t know what that power is, but it’s real. It’s whatever allowed Pappoús to visit Yia-yia after he was already dead, their song—an old Greek love ballad—playing from an unplugged radio while they danced. I was there when it happened one night. I heard the music, even if I couldn’t see him. Heard my grandmother laugh like a teenage girl when he said something funny.