Max chuckled, shaking his head. “I think I can handle it.” He offered me his arm and I hooked mine in it. “Let’s see your new digs.”
“You’re my official San Francisco welcome wagon?”
“Brought to you by Narcotics Anonymous and the Justice Department.”
I harrumphed. “Three meetings a week is excessive, isn’t it? I’ve been clean for a year and a half.”
“Not up to me,” Max said. He glanced down at me. “You know you can’t skip any, right?”
“I won’t,” I said. “And while I might have a lonely night or ten, that doesn’t mean I’m going back to using. I won’t. Not ever.”
Max smiled thinly. “Good to know.”
“I know, I know,” I said. “You’ve heard it all before.”
“Yep, but it’s a good place to start.”
We stepped out into San Francisco and I turned my gaze all around, taking in my new city. The street sign on the corner read Folsom and Beale. The letters were black on white, instead of New York’s white on green.
“Brand new,” I murmured.
“What’s that?” Max asked.
“Nothing.”
From the bus depot, Max led me underground and we took a Muni train—San Francisco’s public transit system—deeper into the city. Compared to New York’s subway system; the red, green, and yellow snakes on the transit map looked simple.
“This doesn’t look too bad.”
“The city is only about seven by seven miles,” Max said, holding on to the overhead bar, as the Muni train screeched underground to my sublet in a neighborhood called the Duboce Triangle. “Big enough to feel like a real city, not so big as to get lost in.”
“That’s good,” I said. “I didn’t come here to get lost.”
“On the contrary,” Max said. “You came here to find yourself.”
“Ooh, that’s deep.”
He shrugged one shoulder. “It’s the truth, isn’t it?”
I nudged his arm. “Are you on the clock already?”
“Twenty-four, seven. I’m here for you whenever you need me. I know how hard it is to start over.” Max scratched his chin. “Or even just to keep going, come to think of it.”
I smiled as warmth spread through my chest. “Did you have someone like you as a sponsor when you were recovering? I hope you did.”
Max’s clear blue eyes clouded up a bit, and his smile tightened. “Yes and no.” The train screeched to a stop. We were above ground again and the day was brilliant. “This is you.”
We exited the train, and Max tossed my army duffel over one shoulder as if it were nothing, while my overstuffed backpack felt like it weighed a thousand pounds.
“I hope it’s not a far walk,” I said.
“What’s the address again?”
I told him and he led me west along Duboce Street.
“This is a nice neighborhood,” Max said. “You found a place here?”
“My friend said it was the last rent-controlled Victorian in all of San Francisco.”