“You’re here, aren’t you?”

“Right. I’m here and still standing.”

When I stepped out of the meeting room, Mark followed. “I’m proud of you.”

“Mine is an old story.”

“But no less poignant.” He handed me a folded slip of paper with a phone number on it. “I know you don’t want a sponsor, but you should have backup. If you have a bad patch, call me, okay? Friend to friend.”

I creased the paper with my fingers and then hugged him. “Sure. Fair enough.”

Walking down the church’s concrete stairs, I looked up at the night sky. Clear, it was made bright by stars and a full moon. Tonight was no different from last night or the night before. I still remained a drink away from oblivion, which likely explained the uneasiness churning in my belly.

I searched the darkness, half expecting to see someone lurking, watching me. But the shadowed alleys were still and quiet. I shook off the feeling, chalking it up to withdrawal from the booze.

Twenty minutes later, I’d swung by three different drugstores until I found the right batteries. At home, I dropped my purse by the front door, clicked on the lights, and sat on the couch, more exhausted than most days.

As moonlight streamed through my window, I opened the camera’s battery compartment and dumped the old two out. The connection points were a little corroded, so I spent another few minutes cleaning them. New batteries loaded, I sealed the case. Crossing my fingers, I pressed the power button, praying it still worked. After a moment’s hesitation, the white power light turned on and the screen sparked to life.

Holding my breath, I looked at the last picture Clare had taken. It was of me, sitting on my bed in our room. My long red hair hung around my face, which was still youthful enough to hide the drinking. I’d never noticed her taking the picture. Five minutes later I left the house and never saw her again.

My throat tightened and tears welled in my eyes. I wondered if there was any wine left in the bottles stowed in my trash can. Shit. This was why I’d gone to the meeting.

The next two images took me back in time an hour to the version of Brit I remembered best. She was smiling, dressed in her blue silk robe, and her clean, softly rolled hair was piled on top of her head. She was wearing makeup. She looked as if she felt fine and was still in New Year’s party mode. Sometime between those moments and two hours later, she’d become too sick to leave the house.