“Conte sits in the kitchen, pressing ice cubes wrapped in a cloth napkin to his wounded face, staring at a bowl of Frosted Flakes. Five minutes later, he gives up on the untouched cereal, the improvised icepack, and returns to the bathroom mirror. The bruises now deep purple—the swellings, like eggs—the cuts, still oozing. The face of a man who walks on ice in his socks because he doesn’t care if he hurts himself. Maybe wants to. The face of a man for whom the nuthouse looms. Who scorns the God ...God God rhetoric of the AA twelve-step method. Who has never reached out to his sponsor, until now: “Kyle?” “Eliot?” “Sorry. I meant to call Mark’s cell.” “Mark just got summoned to the Center on an emergency. Not even a hug goodbye and pale as a ghost.” “Was that a car I just heard? Are you on the street, Kyle?” “Yeah. Walking Handsome.” “Walk him in the backyard.” “Huh?” “Why not walk him in the backyard?” “Because he won’t do anything in the backyard.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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