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pretend they’re something they’re not, like the rest of us do.”
    “They clean offices?”
    “Sure do. The ones the Community Foundation decides are ready. Good workers, every single one. They love earning their own money.”
    Rachel gave her a weak smile. “Well, thanks for listening—I don’t think I caught your name.”
    “Don’t think I threw it.” The woman chuckled. “Friends call me Goldie, it’s okay by me.”
    For the first time in many hours, Rachel’s mouth made a real smile.
    Chapter Eight
    Rachel snapped wide awake and cranky with the first rays of the next morning’s sun. “Three hours sleep is worse than nothing,” she grumbled to herself.
    She kicked off the covers and padded to the kitchen in bare feet only to find the can of Folgers empty. Exasperated, she flung it into the trash and opened another. The jagged lid caught her right thumb, and her elbow hit the newly opened can, spilling the coffee to the floor. She banged her fist on the countertop, which made the blood bubble up in the cut on her thumb.
    Gritting her teeth, she went through the motions again. The wait for the aging Mr. Coffee to brew seemed interminable.
    She took a sip, then set the mug on the counter and studied it. “China,” she muttered. “I like pottery.” Unsure whether she meant “China” literally or figuratively, as Bruno had described it, she took another sip of coffee, leaned back, propped her bare feet up on the counter, and stared blankly at the place where the wall met the ceiling. You’re losing it. Lucky someone decent found you on that bench.
    Suddenly, her weary body shot past the merely awake state and revved up with tension. She sat for a while drumming her fingers on the arms of the barstool, then decided that running might help.
    Five minutes later, in shorts, tee shirt, and a bright purple sweat band, she shoved a bagel into the toaster, fidgeted until it popped up, then jammed it between her teeth and headed for the door. She was still licking the crumbs away when she reached the ground level.
    A light was on in the booth. Inside, Lonnie was slumped over the desk. Normally, he opened the garage for her at seven.
    Swallowing the urge to slap him senseless, Rachel opened the booth door and gently shook his shoulder. “What are you doing here at this hour?” She was answered by a gurgling snore. “Lonnie! Wake up.” She shook him harder.
    “Whaa—!” He came awake, eyes wide with surprise. Pallid cheeks shone through a day’s growth of beard.
    “Look,” she said, taking both his hands in her own and peering into his blank, foggy eyes. “I know what you’re doing and you have to stop. Like now. This minute.”
    He stared at her a moment. “No, you’re wrong.”
    “Lonnie, I’ve been there. I know the signs.”
    He shook his head. “Honest to God, Rachel. I just couldn’t sleep last night.”
    “Neither could I, but it wasn’t from using and boozing.”
    He glanced away from her, ran long, narrow fingers through hair that stuck up every which way. “How come you’re always hounding me?”
    Rachel had gone to high school with him. They’d been from two different worlds, had not known each other well. But four years ago, when she had plumbed the depths of her problems, he had recognized the signs and dragged her to AA. When he was struggling back from his own fall off the wagon, she had given him a job.
    “I’m your conscience. I’m supposed to hound you.” She knew that wasn’t true. Hassling only makes a drunk or an addict withdraw further or get angrier.
    Lonnie lifted eyes filled with sincerity; oddly, they now seemed clear and sharp. “Look—I swear to you—I’ve been feeling sort of rotten, sure. The damn finance company repossessed my car.… Okay, I admit I’ve been wanting some stuff real bad. But I haven’t done it. Really.”
    “Your car? When?”
    “Last week.”
    “Then how have you been getting around?”
    “Burt loaned me one of his.” Burt was a