The image flashed then. Of that last night, the last drive, and a woman whose hair shone like spun moonlight. That night Celia Breach had laughed from the seat beside him. She laughed a great deal back then, a beckoning sound that gunned his heart rate up to redline and beyond.

In these recollections, Brent always thought she told him to slow down. To pay attention to the road and not to her. Offering advice he had been too stoned to either remember clearly or obey.

Brent shut his eyes and shuddered through the rest of the memory—a flash of red from an oncoming car, a scream, the wheel spinning from his hands as they jumped the curb and smashed through a picket fence. Suddenly a stucco wall loomed before them, followed by an explosive impact. Then shattering glass, crushing metal, pain ...

"You okay there?" The pastor waited for Brent to open his eyes to continue,

"Today of all days."

"I'm fine."

Stanley leaned one elbow on Brent's open window. "We could pack up and leave for the hill country right now."

Two years previously, Brent had been out four months and three days, with six weeks left on his parole. Stanley had displayed a telepath's ability and known Brent stood on the abyss. So he'd packed Brent up and taken him into the most beautiful region of Texas and walked him until Brent had forgotten what day it was. Almost.

Stanley went on, "I've been begging God for a reason to get back up there where a man can breathe easy."
"
That was a good day," Brent replied.

"The kind of day we're supposed to focus on." Stanley gave his friend a piercing inspection. "Instead of the regrets, the if-onlys, and the thoughts that stab us in the night."

Stanley Allcott had been out for seven years. He had recently been promoted to associate pastor of the church where this AA meeting took place. He was back in the pulpit again, leading the Wednesday evening services almost against his will. The services were packed.

Brent said, "Thanks, but Liz Courtney invited me to a get-together tonight with some friends."

"What kind of friends?"

"From the amateur theater group. They know who I am, and they know what I've done, and they know I'm clean."

"You sure about that?"

"I'll be fine, Stanley."

His friend patted the truck's side, like he was gentling a restless steer. "You get that itch, I'm five minutes away." Brent started his truck, waved his thanks, and eased his rig out of the lot. He saw his friend standing there still and knew Stanley was praying him away. Brent waved his arm in a Texan farewell, a lazy drift up and back, showing an ease he did not feel. The day ahead was anything but easy. There were too many memories eager to batter him into oblivion.

Five years ago tonight, Brent had stood at the back of a crowd of cons hooting at a television screen housed in a wire cage. He'd watched as his former producer and drinking buddy had walked forward and accepted Brent Stark's Oscar for best supporting actor. On behalf of the pal who was in San Quentin, doing three to ten.