Winter Solstice in St. Nacho's (St. Nacho's #5) - Z.A. Maxfield Page 0,30

held her hand up. “No. Never mind. It’s a tragedy all around. Some people just shouldn’t have kids.”

She backed away from the argument, although whether that meant she was thinking her words over or whether she knew we’d come to another impasse, I couldn’t tell.

Lately our differences, our principles and politics, had started to come between us in a way they never had before. She’d started calling me a snowflake, and things were going downhill from there.

I guess that was happening between a lot of friends these days—particularly with respect to drugs—because the opioid epidemic had hit a lot of middle American towns where agriculture and manufacturing jobs formed the backbone of the economy, and with drugs came crime.

Galt was a small-town oasis, home to a popular flea market and the Cosumnes River Preserve. It had charm and relatively few modern social problems because it was pretty small compared to the greater Sacramento metropolitan area and nearby Lodi, and Stockton, and Manteca—places that had been hit painfully hard.

Maybe my opinions came from having weird, quasi-hippie parents who cared more about the neighborhood kids than they did about the money they earned, or maybe it was because of my cousin Echo. Once I started really looking at so-called social problems, I realized they weren’t problems, they were people who had problems. The little family in the corner weren’t “the homeless.” They were individuals who had no place to live. When I stopped labeling them—the ill, the drug-addicted, the unemployed trying to make a life for their families—I saw people first and problems second, and I could no longer look away.

Suzanne wasn’t the Grinch who stole Christmas. We simply saw things very differently. I swore to myself I’d remember that when she made pronouncements that got my back up.

My effort was probably futile. I understood the average person couldn’t really change society, but I’d been programmed by comics and game play since birth. I’d been brainwashed by Stan Lee.

I believed a little guy could change the world, so why not me?

“Safe travels.” Suzanne waved to me from the front desk as I left.

“It’s only Stockton.”

She shrugged. “I know, but I worry.”

Her words made my throat burn. “Thank you, Suzanne.”

“And don’t let those losers sucker you in. You’re smarter than that.”

“I won’t. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She jerked her chin and went back to what she was doing. I left feeling a little better about where we were with our friendship.

It was, however, a painful reminder that I had to make sure my boundaries were pretty impermeable with everyone, not just people with substance abuse issues or hidden agendas.

I’d learned a painful lesson from Tug, but I’d had the occasional problem with other people too—men who took for granted they knew what I wanted. Women, who took for granted that I could be convinced to love them if only they tried hard enough. There were the door-to-door Bible thumpers and all the phone salespeople who relied on nice guys not to say no or talk back. I had learned that if I didn’t stick up for myself, I couldn’t do anyone any good.

I was in the process of learning, anyway. I wasn’t bulletproof yet.

On the way down to Tug’s meeting, I stopped for dinner and made a quick trip into an office superstore.

Milestones were important in recovery, thirty days, sixty, ninety… a year without drugs was often so far out of reach for an addict they couldn’t believe they’d ever make it through. Celebrating them and collecting little trinkets was tangible proof that it could be done, even after setbacks, and with faith, it could be done again, over and over, until sober time stacked up.

Tug’s thirty-day chip had seemed an impossibility when I’d left him at Hope House. That he’d made it? I wanted to reward him too.

I arrived at Hope House with a few minutes to spare. I didn’t know what to expect. My heart raced as I mounted the steps, even though I told myself it was a meeting, not a goddamn date. This was important but not personal. This required the usual, solid boundaries I kept around addicts and library patrons. Everything would be fine.

When the door opened and Tug stood before me, I realized my mistake.

Tug’s recovery was personal for me.

Unlike anyone I met at the library or the Alano Club, I’d practically pulled Tug from the grave. When destiny put us together, it altered the course of my life and his. There were emotional ties between us. I