Jack starts talking. Jesus Christ, he’s talking about his daughter. Oh fuck, in minute detail. Musical prodigy. Six instruments by nine. The minutes tick by in endless droning about Chrissie. How she is a big fan of my music and has my posters on her wall. Blah. Blah. Blah. Why the fuck does he think I want to hear this? And fuck, why can’t I shoot up while he’s talking at me? I’m half out of my mind. My hands are shaking. I’m sweating like a pig. And the fucking needle is just lying there and I can’t make myself reach for it.

What is it about Jack’s voice and Chrissie’s picture that’s stopping me? I’m an addict…oh Christ, I’m an addict. After eight years of sobriety, I’m back up to my neck in the drug shit again. I can feel it sharp and painful and real inside me. Fuck, I didn’t want this. I just wanted to die, not live as an addict for a second time in my life. A damn incompetent addict at that. Nothing should be able to stand between me and my fix. Why am I not grabbing for the needle? It’s fucking ridiculous. I’ve got what I want. It’s here. One shot. I’ll be dead before that asshole breaks for a breath.

Why can’t I take it?

My stomach starts convulsing. How long has Jack been sitting there talking at me? I look through the window. It’s dark. When did he get here? I can’t remember. Why the fuck won’t he shut up and leave?

“We all need something to hold on to in this life,” Jack says. “You need to find something to replace Molly or you’re going to go down and it’s not going to be pretty. You ride the ride as it’s given to you. If you ride the ride long enough something comes your way worth riding the ride for.”

I glare at Jack, but manage to hold back my words. There is no point in saying anything. He just ignores me and continues talking. But fuck, why does it have to be so trite? Ride the ride? Really. What kind of fucking ’60s shit is that?

“My daughter is everything to me and I’m here with you,” Jack hisses, his anger surfacing.

Everything, huh? Then why the fuck is she so sad? I look at the picture. She has gorgeous blue eyes. His daughter is beautiful. I’ll give Jack that. Lovely, but the girl has the saddest eyes I’ve ever seen. They are leveling and moving and captivating.

I study Jack, his unending narrative out of sync with the picture in front of me. Why the fuck is your daughter so sad, Jack? Why the fuck can’t you see it? And I’m positive he can’t. Not by how he rambles on about his oh so perfect Chrissie.

Anger shoots through the drug withdrawal claiming my senses. I’m angry for her, that little girl in the picture, because her father is a self-righteous ass, thinking he can rescue me when I don’t want to be rescued and doing a crappy job of raising her and can’t see it.

What a fucking ass. I just want to fucking die. Why won’t you let me? Go help your own daughter. She’s one fucking wrong turn away from offing herself. I can see it in her eyes, what I feel in me. She’s going to kill herself, Jack. If you don’t wake up soon, figure out what’s going on with the girl, you are going to lose her like you did Sammy.

“Why the fuck won’t you go away?” I growl. “I don’t want you here. I don’t care what happens to me. Leave off and get the fuck out of here.”

Jack springs to his feet. Ah, I’ve finally struck a nerve in him. I wait anxiously, praying he’ll leave. What the fuck is he doing? He’s handling my works like a pro; spoon, lighter, needle. Jesus Christ, he’s filling up the needle.

He sets it on the table and puts the tie-off around my arm, jerking it so tight I wince even through the numbing fog of my heroin-deprived body.

“You think I’m a fucking asshole and an idiot,” Jack exclaims, slapping the veins on my arm. He lifts the needle and does a few taps against it to make sure there’s no air. He holds the tip above my flesh. “You want to kill yourself, but you are doing a fucking piss-poor job of it. Do you think I don’t know how to do this? I’ve been around this shit all my life. I’ll fry your brains permanently. Then I won’t have to listen to you anymore. You won’t have to listen to me. And I won’t get another call in the middle of the night from Brian to come save your sorry ass.”

I feel the sharpness of the needle against my skin. “Make a decision now, Alan. Do you want me to go home and tell my daughter I killed you tonight? I can fry your brains permanently or you can let me help you. Which do you want from me?”

I’m breathing heavy and I’m dry heaving. I stare at him. Would he really do it? The prick in me says to tell him to. But my tongue is heavy. I can hardly breathe. The world is spinning. I’m shaking out of control. I’m vomiting.

Time moves in and out in a fog. I look up, startled. Shit, we’re walking. Jack’s got a blanket over me and his arm is around me, holding me steady.

He helps me into the waiting Town Car parked at the curb. The door slams. I curl in a ball on the leather seat, shaking. I see the picture of the little girl. Fuck, I grabbed that from the table and not the needle. Why did I do that? Maybe I just didn’t want to leave her there in a Chicago squat next to a stash of heroin.

Jack pats my back. “I don’t care what you say to me, Alan Manzone. You don’t want to die and I won’t let you. We’re going to back to detox. I’m taking you to rehab in California. Then you’re coming home with me. I’m not leaving you, Alan, before this is through. There is nothing you can say. Nothing you can do that would make me walk out on you.”

My thoughts start to blur and jumble. I close my eyes against the pretty face staring at me from the picture. Why is she so sad? Why the fuck are you here, Jack, instead of with Chrissie?

I’m escorted from the airport and pushed into a waiting car in Los Angeles five days later. I feel like death, but I’ve successfully detoxed from the heroin and Jack kept his word. He stayed at the hospital. Brought me to California.

I didn’t really expect Jack to stick around. People don’t keep their word, especially in the music industry. But Jack Parker keeps his word. I’m sure that’s the only reason I’m still indulging this save Alan Manzone ritual of his.

As the car starts and stops on the crowded Southern California freeway, I study him. What is intervening in my life to him? An act of regret? A desire for forgiveness? Is he here as an act of contrition for having fucked up so completely with his own son to the point that Sammy killed himself?

I’ve heard the stories about Jack. How he steps in out of nowhere, helping troubled musicians get their shit together. But why does he do it?

Two hours later, we are driving on an empty road in the desert.

I shift my gaze from the window. “Where the fuck are we going? Betty Ford Center?”

Jack looks uncomfortable. “Not Betty Ford. The doctors thought you needed a different kind of care.”

Different kind of care? “What are you talking about?”

Jack gives me one of his benign, comforting smiles. “They think you’re still suicidal. They only released you to me on the promise that I’d bring you to the Hollman Clinic.”

“Hollman? Never heard of it.”

Jack purses his lips, nodding. “You’ve got big issues, Alan. Hollman is a little more than a rehab center. It’s the best help out there for people in your situation.”

Frowning, I wait for him to explain that one, but he doesn’t. Then I realize what it is he hasn’t said. Oh crap, he’s putting me in a mental hospital. Really, Jack, you think I’m fucking crazy?

I start to laugh. How the fuck did I end up here at twenty-six, with a crazy American thinking I’m crazy when all I am is just tired of the shit?

At last, my final day at Hollman. As for the fucking mood stabilizers that make me feel like a zombie and the group sessions that are a fucking torture to endure, I’m through with both of them forever now that I’ve completed my thirty days here.