What would Dr. Boone say about this? Not six hours into “reentry” and he was already at a bar. Relax, Dr. Boone. It’s just water. If I can resist the urge here at ground zero, then the next place will be easy. He sipped water and occasionally glanced at the rows of liquor bottles. Why were there so many different shapes and sizes? So many different types of spirits? One entire row was taken by flavored vodkas, delicious liquids he had consumed by the barrel back in the days when he was a drunk.

Thank God those days were over.

In the distance, across the floor somewhere, a siren squealed and bells erupted. A lucky slot player had hit a jackpot, and the racket was to remind everyone just how easy it was to win. The bartender filled a glass with a draft beer, then slammed it in front of Baxter. “On the house!” he proclaimed. “Super Slot Jackpot!”

Free drinks for everyone at the bar, which was nobody but Baxter. He almost said, “Hey, pal, take it away. I don’t drink anymore.” But the bartender was gone, plus it would sound silly. How many non-drinkers sidle up to a casino bar at three o’clock in the afternoon?

The glass was frosty, the beer ice-cold. It was darker in color, and Baxter looked at the tap. Nevada Pale Ale. One he’d never tried. His mouth was dry, so he sipped water. For 105 days he’d been hammered by Dr. Boone and the other pros at Washoe Retreat into believing that another drink would eventually lead him back to his addictions. He’d watched and listened as other patients, or guests as they were called, struggled through detox and told their stories of repeated failures. Don’t ever be fooled, they warned repeatedly, you cannot handle a single drink. Total abstinence is required.

Maybe so.

Small bubbles of water formed on the glass, then began to run down to the napkin under it.

He was twenty-five years old, and he never truly believed, not even in his purest moment back at Washoe, that he would live the rest of his life without a drink. Somewhere deep down in his soul he knew he could find the willpower to have a drink, maybe a couple, then stop for the night before things got out of hand. If he planned to drink, why not start now? The last time he tortured himself for fourteen days before breaking down. For two weeks he lied to himself and especially to his friends about loving the life of sobriety, and every single moment he craved a drink. Why go through the misery again?

The beer was getting warm.

He heard the voices of his counselors. He remembered the tears and confessions of the other guests. He heard himself proclaim the gospel of the sober — “I am an alcoholic, weak and powerless, in need of strength from a higher being.”

And they were weak, those other losers back at Washoe Retreat. But not Baxter. He could handle a few drinks because he was stronger. He rationalized that he would, under no circumstances, succumb to the romance and horror of cocaine. Nor would he indulge in hard liquor. Just a little beer, occasionally, and he might get serious about wine.

No big deal.

Still, he could not make himself reach forward and touch the glass. It was eighteen inches away, well within his grasp, just standing there like a coiled rattler ready to kill. Then it was a luscious treat that delivered a pleasant buzz. Back and forth, back and forth. Evil versus good.

“You need to make new friends,” Dr. Boone had said repeatedly. “And you can’t go back to your old haunts. Find some new places, new friends, new challenges, a different place to live.”

Well, how about this, Dr. Boone? Sitting here for the very first time in a run-down Reno casino he couldn’t remember the name of? Never been here before? Ha-ha.

Both hands were free, and at some point Baxter realized his right hand was shaking slightly. And his breathing was labored and heavy.

“You okay, buddy?” the bartender asked as he walked by.

Yes, no. Baxter nodded something but couldn’t speak. His eyes were locked on the glass of beer. Where was he? What was he doing? Six hours after leaving rehab he was in a bar brawling with himself over whether he should take another drink. He was already a loser. Look where he was.

With his left hand, he reached forward, touched the glass, then slid it slowly toward him. He stopped when it was six inches away. He could smell the barley and hops. The glass was still cold, or cold enough.

The war shifted from good versus evil to run versus stay. He almost managed to shove himself away from the bar and sprint back through the slots to the front door. Almost. Oddly, it was Keefe who helped him make the decision. Keefe was his best friend at Washoe, and Keefe was from a wealthy family that was paying for the third rehab. The first two tanked when Keefe convinced himself that a little pot was harmless.

Baxter whispered to himself, “If I drink this beer now, and if things turn out badly, I can always go back to Washoe, and with two failures, I’ll be convinced that total abstinence is required. Just like Keefe.

But right now I really want this beer.” With both hands he clasped the glass, raised it slowly, sniffing as it grew closer. He smiled when the cold glass touched his lips. The first sip of Nevada Pale Ale was the most magnificent nectar he’d ever tasted. He savored it, eyes closed, face serene.

From over his right shoulder someone yelled loudly, “There you are, Baxter!”

He almost choked and he almost dropped the glass. He jerked around and there was Brother Manny, closing fast and obviously not happy. “What are you doing?” he demanded as he lowered a heavy hand on Baxter’s shoulder and seemed ready to trade punches.

Baxter wasn’t sure what he was doing. He was drinking a beer, one that was definitely off-limits, but he was so horrified at the moment he couldn’t speak. Brother Manny delicately took the glass and slid it down the bar. “Get rid of this,” he growled at the bartender, then he sat on the stool next to Baxter and moved in low until his nose was once again five inches away. “Listen to me, son,” he said in a soft voice. “I cannot make you leave this place right now. That is your decision. But if you want me to help you, then say so. I’ll get you out of here, take you back to my church, make some coffee, and we’ll tell some stories.”

Baxter’s shoulders sagged and his chin dropped. The ale was still attacking his taste buds.

“This could be the most important decision of your life,” Brother Manny said. “Right now, at this moment. Stay or go. If you stay, you’ll be dead in five years. If you want to go, then say so and we’ll leave together.”

Baxter closed his eyes and said, “I’m so weak.”

“Yes, but I’m not. Let me get you out of here.”

“Please.”

Brother Manny practically lifted him off the stool, then put a thick arm around his shoulders. They slowly made their way past the slot machines and empty roulette wheels, and they were almost to the front door when Brother Manny realized that Baxter was crying. The tears made him smile. An addict must hit the bottom before he starts his climb.

THE PASTOR’S OFFICE was a large cluttered room next to the sanctuary. The secretary, Brother Manny’s wife, brought them a pot of strong coffee and two mismatched mugs. Baxter sat low in an old leather sofa and sipped furiously, as if he could rinse away the taste of the beer. The tears had stopped, for now.

Brother Manny sat close by on a wooden rocker, and as he talked, he moved slowly back and forth. “I was in prison in California,” he was saying. “The second time around, in a gang, doing worse stuff on the inside than we did on the streets. I got careless one day, got away from my turf, and the rival gang jumped me. Woke up in the prison hospital with broken bones and cuts and such. Cracked skull. Terrible pain. I remember thinking death would be welcome. I was so sick of living, sick of my life, sick of the miserable person I was. I knew that if I survived and one day got paroled again, I’d end up on the streets, playing the same game. Where I grew up, you either went to prison or you died young. Sounds very different from the way you grew up, doesn’t it, Baxter?”