On the weekend, when Nic calls again, he is eager to talk. He expresses astonishment that he relapsed. “I was sober for eighteen months,” he says. “I got cocky. It’s this trick of addiction. You think, My life isn’t unmanageable, I’m doing fine. You lose your humbleness. You think you’re smart enough to handle it.” He admits that he is ashamed—mortified—about this relapse and claims that he is redoubling his efforts. “I’ve been going to two meetings a day,” he says. “I have to start the steps all over.” Of course I am relieved (once again) and hopeful (once again). I’m always evaluating:
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