“She’d heard it so many times,” Shawna says. “But that time, for whatever reason, it clicked.”

“Because he was famous,” Carla says flatly.

Shawna shrugs. “It doesn’t matter how it happens.”

That sounds like a motto printed on a T-shirt in Comic Sans font. How has Shawna managed to pack in so many stories on this short stretch of Mifflin? They detour around the foxiest kids. Sometimes Shawna pauses to collect a beer can or a soggy hot dog bun or, once, a plastic gallon bag of what looks like human shit. This she lifts all the way to her face before dropping it in horror. It’s fuzzed with snow, like mold.

When they reach Carla’s doorstep she’s relieved. Soon she’ll be alone again. She’s not afraid anymore. This walk has prepared her. She’ll drink tea. She’ll call the pet store. She’ll look out the window and watch for as long as she can. And then she’ll go out later. Evening will be impossible to resist. But she’ll keep her numbers down by starting late. “It was nice seeing you, Shawna.”

“There’s one more story, though.” Shawna rubs a patch of dry skin on her jaw. “Do you have a minute?”

Carla nods. She can’t be too rude. She needs to protect the outlet of the meetings. She’ll recover soon enough, even if she relapses today.

“Remember the boys we just saw?” Shawna asks.

The red hair stuck out from behind the ears of one, the broad blond face of the other. Both boys looked encased in a skin of ice, like they’d walked the Wisconsin streets for months, like they’d never enjoy relief from the cold.

“They’re not my kids.”

This news is no surprise. Though Shawna is an authority in the SLAA community, she has a dangerous edge. Like even if Carla trusted her with her sobriety, she’d never ask her to house-sit. She can’t walk straight. Her lips never fully blanket her teeth.

“I used to do things with those boys,” Shawna says. “When they were younger.”

Carla can’t imagine the kids any younger than they are now. They look like they just stepped into existence, their skin shiny and puffy, never yet sunburned or pimpled or bruised.

Shawna blinks, but snow clings to her eyelashes. She’s about to explain what she did to those kids, who might be representatives from a larger group or maybe are her entire victim population. Either way it’s horrible. She had sex with them or gave them drugs. Such stories are referenced every week at SLAA, though graphic details are discouraged. But maybe Shawna’s story is even worse than the others. Maybe the highest ranked have committed the darkest actions. Maybe she made the boys fuck while she watched, or dressed them like babies. Maybe she had sex with them before they were of age, which is eighteen in Wisconsin. That was one of the first facts Carla checked when she moved.

What happened doesn’t matter. Carla will hear the story, and she’ll see her future in the jowls sagging around Shawna’s mouth, in the words containing a sickening flavor of pride. “That’s okay,” Carla says. “I’m good.” She opens her door.