Walker pushed his cuff back discreetly and checked the time. He’d stopped wearing the sling and he was happy to have his right arm free. Seven minutes to go in yet another interminable AA meeting, this one sparsely attended, which made his unwillingness to share all the more conspicuous. Some of the regulars were there: an old geezer named Fritz, who was missing half his teeth; a woman who called herself Phoebe though he could have sworn he’d been introduced to her at the club by another name. The only person in the room under forty was a young dark-haired girl, thin as a snake, her eyes lined in kohl. Her nails were clipped short and painted dark red. She smoked and said nothing, which he personally applauded as he intended to do the same. She looked like she was barely old enough to drink and he wondered what had brought her to this sorry place. No sign of Avis Jent, which was a relief. He was nine days sober, a miracle in itself. In the past, when he’d claimed he’d quit drinking, he’d never actually gone more than two days without alcohol of some kind.

When the meeting ended he bypassed the bad coffee and headed for the side door, trying not to appear too thrilled to escape. The girl was a few steps in front of him and he flirted with the idea of making an offhand comment, something tongue-in-cheek to establish rapport. It would be nice to compare notes with someone in the same boat. He was beginning to understand why nondrinkers hung out together—misery loves company.