16
Rickey was out East, driving along Chef Menteur Highway, when he saw the storefront clinic advertising Acupuncture & Traditional Medicine in three languages. At least, he assumed the Vietnamese and Spanish words advertised it; he could only read the English. He didn’t know if the place would be open yet—he’d come out to the weekly Vietnamese farmers’ market, which mostly took place between 5:00 and 8:00 a.m., and was now headed back into town with a cooler of shrimp and a crate full of beautiful herbs and salad greens—but on impulse he swung into the parking lot anyway. His back had given him holy hell all through dinner service last night, and for the first time ever, two Vicodins when he got home had scarcely touched the pain.
There were no lights on inside, but the glass door swung
