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Though he had two days before heading south of the border, Austin decided to lay low. After stopping at Luigi’s for a couple of slices of their specialty pizza, he flagged a taxi and gave the address of St. Michael the Archangel Parish. He hadn’t been to mass in years, other than the required holidays with his mother and sister. It wasn’t the salvation of praying the rosary or lighting a candle he was after, but steady support of the 12-steps. Churches, nationwide, regardless of the denomination, opened their doors to provide sanctuary for recovering addicts. He didn’t drink, hadn’t since he left New Beginnings. Gratitude and relief suffused his thoughts when he considered it had been some time since the need had reached up and gripped him by the throat. The new job, the bombing, an in
