It seemed everything was going fantastically. Marty didn’t drink as much, didn’t carouse, and seemed to be becoming a model citizen.
That was, until several weeks after that third meeting, when I finally went to her house to find her. I hadn’t heard from her in over a week, and when I called, there was never an answer. The phone rang, so I knew she wasn’t talking on it. It wasn’t like Marty to just let it ring.
When I knocked on the door, I heard, “It’s open.” She must have seen my car drive up out front.
She was sitting in her living room with a six-pack, half of them empty. There were ashes in the ashtray and scattered around the coffee table, and an open pack of Camels beside it.
“What’s the story, pal?” I asked, looking around at the mess in her house.
She turned to face me. “What
