He smuggled vodka into festivals and lifted bottles in a denim jacket in July. The friend he met at twelve told him to sell the car, then drove him to rehab.

Her phone had been shut off for months. Sitting under an Indiana bridge with one shoe and no plan, it rang, and the voice offered Heidi P. a plane ticket.

The last time his daughter spoke to him before he got sober, she told him never to contact her again. Today, when anything goes wrong, he is her first call.

Her husband said rehab or lose all of us, and she paused. That pause still haunts her. By then Nancy was nodding off at the table as her kids called her name.