out of his mouth—then stared at my shoes until it was over.
“Anger can cause all kinds of problems,” Rossi said. “And insomnia is certainly one of them. Lack of sleep can lead to exhaustion, which can lead to poor decision-making, which in turn leads to even more anger. It’s an ugly chain reaction. You may want to talk to your doctor about getting a sleeping aid. Without proper rest, it’s harder to make good choices, explore the source of your anger, and try to control it.”
“Right,” Fierro said, nodding. “Right.”
An older man with tattooed arms raised his hand to speak. He worked for Home Depot, he said, and had been put on probation at work because he’d had an outburst with a customer over an order of window shades. Another guy, a long-haul truck driver, said he missed his wife while he was gone, but as soon as he came back home they’d fight until it was time for him to leave again.
Finally, the wall clock chimed nine o’clock and the session was over. I waited until Fierro and I had left the community center and were alone in my car before I turned to him. “You think that stunt you pulled in there was funny?”
He thumped me lightly on the arm. “Kind of. Admit it, it was funny.”
“You can be such an asshole sometimes.”
“I told you it’d be a bunch of pussies talking about their feelings.”
“Try calling them that to their faces, see what happens.”
“Dude. Relax, it’s not a big deal.”
“Everything’s always a joke to you.”
Fierro leaned in. “What’s that?”
“You heard me. So don’t act like you didn’t.”
“Come on, don’t make such a big deal out of it. I won’t do it next time.”
“There won’t be a next time,” I said, starting the car and backing out of my parking spot. I was getting tired of his antics. If he didn’t want to get help, I wasn’t going to make him. Let him do whatever the hell he wanted. I turned the dial on the radio, changing stations. I was looking for the news, but the folk and country station came first and I settled on that instead. My father had been in a folk band before he met my mother, and I’d grown up listening to that music at home—that was how I’d become interested in playing guitar.
Fierro took off his cap and ran his fingers through his hair. “I liked those people. Seriously.”
But that was the trouble. I could never be sure he was serious. “Yeah, whatever.”
“And the group leader, what’s-his-name, he was nice.”
“Rossi.”
“Seems like a good guy.”
“He is. You’re really going to be back next week?”
“I said I would, and I will. Wanna go bowling?”
“It’s getting late.”
“Dude. It’s only nine.”
I thought for a minute. “Let’s go to Desert Arcade.”
“Nah. That place is lame.”
“You want to go bowling or not?”
I drove down the highway until I saw the bright new sign for the Pantry—so bright you could see it from a block away—but the restaurant was already closed by the time we pulled into the parking lot. Only the bowling alley next door was open. I didn’t know why I’d wanted to come here or what I was hoping for, exactly, but ever since I’d seen Nora at McLean’s, I’d been under the grip of nostalgia.
“It’s pretty empty,” Fierro said when we walked into the arcade.
And it wasn’t hard to see why: the carpet was threadbare, the lighting was bland, the video game consoles were old. But there were ten perfectly polished lanes and plenty of room to play. I went up to the counter, and old Mr. Baker put away his newspaper and stood up. I’d gone to high school with his son, A.J., but I could tell he didn’t recognize me; I looked different without all that weight I’d once carried.
Fierro and I ordered a couple of games and rental shoes, then walked across the concourse to