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cordwood and probably made the fire even more destructive because of the heat of burning paper.”
    “But you didn’t say anything. You were holding out on me.”
    “You mean knowing him? Or that I was in the program? Or that I think this wasn’t an accident?”
    “All of ’em, you son of a bitch. We work together. We talk to each other. No secrets. This is how you got in trouble down in Denver. This is why you’re back in Montana. Damn you, remember when I told you never to put me into a position I didn’t want to be in?”
    Cody didn’t shine his flashlight at Larry to see his face. He didn’t need to. Larry was angry, and hurt.
    “I wasn’t holding out,” Cody said. “I wanted your honest take on the scene. I wanted you to talk me out of what I was thinking. I hoped you would. You didn’t.”
    Larry threw the wallet down on the tabletop. He started to say something but caught himself. Then, mocking, he said, “My name is Cody Hoyt. I’m an alcoholic asshole. ”
    Cody couldn’t help himself. He laughed.
    Larry looked up, surprised. “That’s funny?”
    “Yeah, it is. Tonight when I got the call, I nearly double-tapped a doper outside a bar for his twelve-pack of beer.”
    Larry looked at him. “How long have you been in AA?”
    “Two months. Just two months. Fifty-nine days, five hours to be exact. Hardest time of my life.”
    Larry chinned the direction of the body. “And he was your sponsor? I don’t know exactly how this works, but this guy Henry—”
    “Hank,” Cody corrected.
    “ Hank was your sponsor. That means whenever you felt like taking a snort you called him and he talked you down? Like that?”
    Cody said, “Like that. But there’s a lot more to it. Nobody can talk a drunk out of a drink except a fellow drunk. He was good, too. He appealed to my best nature.”
    “I didn’t think you had one.”
    “I don’t,” Cody said. “But I’ve got a kid. I don’t see him much, but he looks up to me because he doesn’t know any better.”
    Larry’s face softened some. Not much.
    Said Cody, “My dad was a drunk. My mom was a drunk. My uncle was a drunk. My kid could go down the same road. I don’t want him to. So I want to clean myself up. Not give him a role model, you know?”
    Larry looked away. “I hate this kind of sharing. Men talk to each other, they don’t share. Sharing’s for assholes.”
    “Yeah,” Cody said, “believe me, I hate this Oprah bullshit. But it is what it is. I’m learning to find out what it’s like to be clean and sober. I’ve been pretty much drunk for twenty years. And you know what?”
    “What?”
    “It sucks. I don’t know how you people do it—too much reality. But Hank was good because he understood and didn’t try to act superior. He knew where I am now. He went through it himself, and he was a tough bastard. Marine. Desert Storm, in fact. And he did it all on his own. His wife left him years ago and he had no brothers or sisters. His parents were dead. He did the Twelve Steps on his own.”
    Moments went by. The rain thrummed on the roof.
    “Well, good for you,” Larry said. “I didn’t mean to give you a hard time. But it seemed you were holding out, like testing me or something.”
    “I told you it wasn’t like that.”
    Larry took a deep breath and threw his shoulders back. “So can we get on with this now? Can we figure this stupid thing out?”
    “Yeah,” Cody said, grateful.
    “So what did Hank Winters do? Was he coming back here from a trip?”
    “Probably. He was on the road most of the time. A pharmaceutical rep. His territory was the whole mountain west, from what he told me. He didn’t tell me the specifics, but he was gone three out of four weeks a month. He stayed sober even though he was surrounded by temptation—all those airports and hotel bars. Think about it. He once told me, ‘Even if you’re not at home you can always find a meeting.’ And he did.”
    Larry nodded. “So how could he be your sponsor