forty-two, my body was all but revolting against me. I’d put it through hell in my twenties. Six years of jumping out of planes in the Army had done the real heavy lifting in the damage department, but I’d done my fair share of destroying it in other ways. Tequila had been my poison of choice for most of my thirties, but eventually I got my shit together. After that kind of abuse, I should have been grateful all I had were a few rusty creaks.
