I asked Greg where he was from. South Carolina. His voice was deep and his mouth barely moved when he spoke. “I’ve been to Charleston once,” I told him, not mentioning that I’d felt completely strange there, like the only Arab for hundreds of miles, maybe thousands. I asked him about the toys.

“They’re for when we do inner child work,” he said, picking up a stuffed turtle from beside him. It was awkward, the sight of the furry innocent thing in his rough, cracked hands. “Don’t worry, you’ll get your own soon,” he continued, “and they’ll make you bring it everywhere.” He rolled his eyes and jutted his elbow in my direction. “I know it seems silly. But trust me, you’ll grow to love it.”

He looked down at his turtle and gave it a tender squeeze. Just as I was wondering if I could leave and still get my money back, the doors leading from upstairs opened and about twenty or so people streamed into the living room. I looked to Greg, who called out, “Dinnertime! Sloppy Joes tonight.”

I thought back to my pre-treatment phone call with Nancy; apparently this counted as gourmet dining. I reluctantly followed the stream to the cafeteria, where I scooped fluorescent orange meat onto my plate. I added a little salad and then sat down at a table with Greg and a few others. “Sloppys taste a lot better with buns, you know,” he said.

I lied and told him there were none left. I was too uncomfortable to eat, especially bread that looked like the cotton stuffing inside of furniture. Instead I stabbed at a browning piece of iceberg lettuce, zigzagging it across my plate. After dinner, Richard came over and knelt beside me with a clipboard. “You’ll be going in the blue van to the Al-Anon meeting in Bowling Green,” he said. “Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous only meets in Louisville.”

In addition to having no idea that Twelve Step meetings would be a part of this, I was surprised that they didn’t have their own Ledge members-only meetings on site, that we’d be mingling with locals. Apparently, that was the point: to humble us, so we’d avoid feeling special and distinguishing ourselves from other addicts. I wondered why Nancy hadn’t bothered to mention any of this to me before I’d signed up.

“What’s Al-Anon?” I asked Richard.