The second meeting was held at a small Lutheran church in Carrollton, where a mastiff-looking auto mechanic named Herbie came up to him and handed him both books. There was still a jittery one-eye-on-the-door quality to the discussion, but the tone was upbeat with a thank-God-for-small-favors humility. Pat raised his hand for under thirty days but didn’t share. He just studied the banners for the twelve steps and twelve traditions, and read a few pages in the Big Book. The good Bill W. seemed to be describing men like Pat’s father—unaware and antic salesmen types stuck in Eugene O’Neill plays. And while the meetings didn’t hurt, he was still too ashamed and depressed to see their value or seek fellowship. Pat knew he was an alcoholic, he knew the booze had broken him, but he was stuck somewhere between abstinence and sobriety. He had cravings every hour of the day, but once the initial withdrawal was over, half of his conditions from the MS improved. He felt better physically, but his thinking was a fog of aggravation. Even packing seemed overwhelming. This new job is what I need. Good to have a purpose. A routine. A way to provide. He had to get away from Anne, who was driving him to drink. He had to get better for Dan. The drinking had led to problems Pat couldn’t fathom—For Christ’s sake, I’m deserting my family—but with stubborn, unyielding dignity he would show his son what it meant to be a man.

Dan Malone hunched over the light box in the office of The Roundup, brooding with impatience. The graduation edition was running late to the printer as Father Dallanach sat on the layout boards. Dan’s father was flying out in four hours, and there was no good reason for the holdup. Final sign-off was all that was standing between Dan and summer, and he was sure Dallanach just needed to be goosed. He marched over to the closet that served as the darkroom and knocked. The fussbucket Father Argerlich, the paper’s publisher and moderator, was hiding inside.

“In development. What?”

“It’s Dan, Father, can I come in?”

Dan heard the blackout curtain pull back and the door unlock. He stepped in to find the tubby priest scowling under the red lights.

“Since you’re here, help me with this roll for the alumni newsletter.”

Dan picked up the tongs and moved the eight-by-tens of the baseball playoffs against Bishop Lynch from stop to fixer.

“Any word from Father Dallanach?”

“About?” The oblivious Argerlich—twenty questions every goddamn time.

“The final issue—are we clear to print?”

“Ah. I saw him this morning in the residence.” Popping his glasses onto his pate, Argerlich stooped over a contact sheet and squinted through a loupe. “He didn’t make any promises.”

“Okay, should we check on it?”

“I’m busy in here.”