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blue and red betta fish that conjured up its own phosphorescent beauty in its circular travels. Sometimes Carter did wish that he had photographs to display next to the fish. At various points in his life, he had possessed photographs: a childhood picture of his big sister, Cheryl Lynn, and himself by a manger scene; Instamatic photos of high school friends and friends from Vietnam. There had been a great picture from a softball picnic: Cheryl Lynn, Carter, his friend Neff Morgan, Bonnie Drabnek—the Inuit woman with whom Carter had lived once upon a time—and Bonnie’s three little kids.
    How all of those photographs leaked from Carter’s life, he did not know. A number of the people in them were dead now. Worse, without the photographs, all of them seemed dead.
    In lieu of photographs, a hardbound copy of Alcoholics Anonymous (aka The Big Book) sat next to the fish bowl, along with two gifts from Carter’s Recovery House counselor. The first gift was an inexpensive gold picture frame that contained a blurry newspaper photo of Howell Park’s Shelter #6 and the accompanying article:
    An area homeless man, Carter Thomas Clay, remains in critical condition after being stabbed in the Howell Park area. A pair of early-morning joggers found Clay near death on the park’s service road. Motive for the assault has not been established, though police seek information regarding a man with whom Clay was said to have fought earlier Friday evening. Witnesses to that fight described the second man as in his forties, slender, approximately five-ten, redheaded and wearing ablack Indy 500 jacket. The second man allegedly drew a knife on Clay during the quarrel.
    The homeless men who congregate at the picnic shelter at the far end of Howell Park have been a source of complaints from area residents, who charge the men are often drunk and belligerent and come into neighborhood yards to use residents’ outdoor faucets and urinate. In 1992, a gunfight at the shelter resulted in fatal injuries to two men; in the past six months, police have suspected foul play in two deaths, one involving a gunshot wound, the other a drowning in the nearby canal.
    â€œThat’s so you don’t forget where you’ve been,” said the Recovery House counselor, whose second gift was a copy of Moby-Dick. According to the counselor—a muscular former biker— Moby-Dick was the best book ever written. Ten pages a day, the counselor advised Carter. Anybody can read ten pages a day, right?
    Carter trusted that Moby-Dick was a fine thing to read. If you counted the many notes at the back, Moby-Dick appeared as thick and full of ideas as Alcoholics Anonymous or the Bible. The Recovery House counselor had marked his favorite spots in Moby-Dick with a watermelon-bright highlighter, and the pages flashed cheerfully whenever Carter flipped through them. But Carter had never spent much time on books. Reading Moby-Dick , Carter was like a thirsty man who holds ice in his aching hands in hopes that, within the leaky cup formed of his fingers, the heat of his body will melt enough ice to provide him with a drink. You understand: sheer physical discomfort makes such a man give up the task over and over again.
    Up until three days ago, however, Carter did a good job of following the rest of the routine that the Recovery House counselor advised: each morning, brush your teeth and make your bed. Before leaving for work, kneel and say the prayer on page 63 of Alcoholics Anonymous. Tuesday, Thursday, Friday, and Sunday evenings: attend the AA meetings in the basement of the Baptist church (cotton-ball lambs frolicking on Sunday school bulletinboard; bad fluorescent lights; a sharp, ineradicable odor of mold that reminded Carter of Washington state and gave him a familiar and thus not entirely unpleasant sense of anxiety).
    The people at AA liked Carter. He was not sullen. In fact, he was often whistling some bit of old rock and roll as he