Allother sounds cease. In that moment it is just the baby, and this sacred respitefrom the dissonance that fills my waking hours.

    Itouch the Record button, keeping the microphone near the little girl's mouthfor a few seconds, gathering the sounds, collecting a moment which wouldotherwise be gone in an instant.

    Timeslows, lengthens, like a lingering coda.

    I withdrawmy hand. I do not want to stay too long, nor alert the mother to any danger. Ihave a full day ahead of me, and cannot be deterred.

    'Shehas your eyes,' I say.

    Thelittle girl does not, and it is obvious. But no mother ever refuses such a compliment.

    'Thankyou.'

    Iglance at the sky, at the buildings that surround Fitler Square. It is time.Well, it was lovely talking to you.'

    You,too,' replies the woman. ''Enjoy your day.'

    'Thankyou,' I say. I'm sure I will.'

    Ireach out, take one of the baby's tiny hands in mine, give it a little shake.'It was nice meeting you, little Ashley.'

    Motherand daughter giggle.

    Iam safe.

    Afew moments later, as I walk up Twenty-third Street, toward Delancey, I pullout the digital recorder, insert the mini-plug for the earbuds, play back therecording. Good quality, a minimum of background noise. The baby's voice isprecious and clear.

    AsI slip into the van and head to South Philadelphia I think about this morning,how everything is falling into place.

    Harmonyand melody live inside me, side by side, violent storms on a sun-blessed shore.

    Ihave captured the beginning of life.

    NowI will record its end.

Chapter 2

    'Myname is Paulette, and I'm an alcoholic.'

    'Hi,Paulette.'

    Shelooked out over the group. The meeting was larger than it had been the previousweek, nearly doubled in size from the first time she attended the Second Versegroup at the Trinity United Methodist Church nearly a month earlier. Beforethat she had been to three meetings at three different places - North Philly,West Philly, South Philly - but, as she soon learned, most people who attend AAmeetings regularly find a group, and a vibe, with which they are comfortable, andstay with it.

    Therewere twenty or so people sitting in a loose circle, equally divided between menand women, young and old, nervous and calm. The youngest person was a womanaround twenty; the oldest, a man in his seventies, sitting in a wheelchair. Itwas also a diverse group - black, white, Hispanic, Asian. Addiction, of course,had no prejudice, no gender or age issues. The size of the group indicated thatthe holidays were rapidly approaching, and if anything pressed the glowing redbuttons of inadequacy, resentment, and rage, it was the holidays.

    Thecoffee, as always, was crap.

    'Someof you have probably seen me here before,' she began, trying to affect a toneof lightness and cheer. 'Ah, who the hell am I kidding? Maybe I'm wrong aboutthat. Maybe it's ego, right? Maybe I think I'm the shit, and no one else does.Maybe that's the problem.

    Anyway,today is the first time I've really had the balls to speak. So, here I am, andyou have me. At least for a little while. Lucky you.'

    Asshe told her story, she scanned the faces. There was a kid in his mid-twentieson the right - killer blue eyes, ripped jeans, a multicolor Ed Hardy T-shirt,biceps of note. More than once she looked over at him and saw him scanning her body.He may have been an alcoholic but he was still most definitely on the make.Next to him was a woman in her fifties, a few decades of heavy use mapped inthe broken veins on her face and neck. She rolled a sweaty cellphone over andover in her hands, tapped one foot to some long-silenced beat. A few chairsdown from her was a petite blonde in a green Temple University sweatshirt,athletic and toned, the weight of the world just a snowflake on her shoulder.Next to her sat Nestor, the group leader. Nestor had opened the meeting withhis own short and sad tale, then asked if there was anyone else who wanted totalk.

    Myname is Paulette.

    Whenshe finished her story everyone clapped politely. After that other people rose,talked, cried. More applause.

    Whenall their stories were exhausted, every emotion wrung, Nestor reached out hishands to either side. 'Let's give thanks and praise.'

    Theyjoined hands, said a short prayer, and the meeting was over.

    'It'snot as easy as it looks, is it?'

    Sheturned around. It was Killer Blue Eyes. At just after noon they stood outsidethe main church doors, between a pair of emaciated brown evergreens, alreadystruggling through the season.

    'Idon't know,' she replied. 'It looked pretty hard to begin with.'

    KillerBlue Eyes laughed. He had put on a short cognac leather jacket. A pair of amberSerengeti sunglasses were clipped to the neck of his T-shirt. He worethick-soled black boots.

    'Yeah.I guess you're right,' he said. He clasped his hands in front of him, rockedback slightly on his heels. His good-guy, not-to-worry pose. 'It's been a whilesince I've done it for the first time.' He held out his hand. 'Your name isPaulette, right?'

    'AndI'm an alcoholic.'

    KillerBlue Eyes laughed again. 'I'm Danny. Me too.'

    'Niceto meet you, Danny.' They shook hands.

    'Ican tell you this, though,' he continued, unasked. 'It gets easier.'

    'Thesobriety part?'

    'Iwish I could say that. What I meant was the talking part. Once you getcomfortable with the group it gets a little easier to tell your stories.'

    'Stories?'she asked. 'Plural? I thought I was done.'

    'You'renot done,' he said. 'It's a process. It goes on for a long time.'

    'Okay.Like, how long?'

    'Didyou see that guy in the red flannel shirt?'

    Dannywas talking about the older man, the guy in his seventies, the guy in thewheelchair. 'What about him?'

    'He'sbeen coming to meetings for thirty-six years.'

    'Jesus.He hasn't had a drink in thirty-six years?'

    'That'swhat he says.'

    'Andhe still wants one?'

    'Sohe says.'

    Dannylooked at his watch, an oversized Fossil chronograph. The move looked justslightly less calculated and rehearsed than it probably was. 'You know, I don'thave to be at work for a couple of hours. Can I buy you a cup of coffee?'

    Shelooked appropriately suspicious. 'I don't know.'

    Dannyput up both hands. 'No strings. Just coffee.'

    Shesmiled. 'Irish?'

    'BadPaulette. Bad, bad Paulette.'

    She laughed.'Let's go.'

    Theypicked a place on Germantown Avenue, sat at a table near the window,small-talked - movies, fashion, the economy. She had a fruit salad. He hadcoffee and a cheeseburger. Neither would rate Zagat's.

    Afterfifteen minutes or so she held up her iPhone, tapped the touch screen. She didnot dial a number, did not send a text or an email, did not make an entry ontoher contact list or schedule something in iCal. Instead, she took a picture ofKiller Blue Eyes, having earlier in the day deselected the option that attachedthe sound of a clicking camera to the operation. When she was done she lookedat the cellphone's screen in mock frustration, as if something was wrong.Nothing was wrong. The photograph, which the young man could not see, wasperfect.

    'Problem?'he asked.

    Sheshook her head. 'No. It's just that I can never get much of a signal aroundhere.'