My fingers brush over a half-melted Reece’s peanut butter cup. That’ll do. As I pull it out, a small, glossy card falls into my lap. Absentmindedly, I pick it up and flip it over. Sinners Anonymous. The letters are embossed in gold, and underneath, the number is printed in silky black numerals. The card has taken a battering; there’s a crease in the middle where I once sat down with it in the back pocket of my jeans, and the edges curl in, like they are protecting my special little secret. I don’t know why I still carry the card with me after all this time, because I’d be able to recite the
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