Spin A Novel

CHAPTER 4

Hi, Katie!





I sleep right through the rest of the day and into the next morning. When I finally wake up, there’s still light slipping past the curtains, but now it’s a pale, morning light.

As I open my eyes, I feel fuzzy from the drugs and hungover from the Jameson and Cokes. I need to drink a huge glass of water, to pee, and to puke my guts out. Maybe not in that order.

I eye the kidney pan on the dresser. Absolutely not. I will not puke into something that belongs in a hospital or an old folks’ home!

I pull back the covers and stagger down the hall, trying to remember which door Carol said leads to the bathroom. The second handle I try is the right one.

Please let me finish peeing before I puke. Please let me finish peeing before I puke. Please let me . . . not quite the Serenity Prayer, but it works. The clenched feeling in my gut recedes and eventually passes.

I find an empty glass by the sink, still in its hotel-like paper wrapping, and fill it with tap water. The first sip feels like heaven in my cotton-wool mouth, and I drink and drink, refilling the glass again and again. When I’m sure I can safely leave the bathroom, I retrieve my toiletries and fresh clothes from my suitcase. After a shower and a good teeth brushing I feel almost human. Well, OK, a human with a wicked hangover, but this too shall pass.

What I could really use is the hair of the dog, but something tells me they let dogs bite you around here.

When I get back to my room, I realize it’s only 6:40, presumably in the morning. I’ve got a lot of time to kill.

Might as well get to work.

I take the new journal I purchased at the airport out of my bag and start a fake entry that’s really notes on what I’ve seen and heard up to now. All the puking and prodding will make good atmosphere for my article.

When I’ve captured every sight, sound, and smell I can remember, I pull out a soft case from my bag that contains the iTouch Bob gave me as a way to communicate with him while I’m undercover.

“There aren’t any cell phones allowed,” he said, handing me a matte black box. “Fill it up with music, make it look like your own.”

I felt a moment of panic. A whole month, maybe more, without texting? My friends were going to think I’m dead.

“Is email forbidden too?”

“That’s right.”

No cell phones, no email. Where are they sending me?

“Sounds strict.”

“It’s not one of those chi-chi spa places.”

Damn. I was already imagining myself immersed in a mud bath.

“So, how am I going to use this?”

“You’re going to hack into their Wi-Fi network.”

“I wouldn’t have the foggiest idea how to do that.”

He handed me a slim envelope. “The instructions you’ll need are in here. You should memorize them tonight.”

I opened it and read them quickly. They looked simple enough for me to follow.

“How did you get the password to their system?”

He looked smug. “We have our ways.”

I squash a pillow behind my back and cross my legs into a weak lotus position. I start up the iTouch, hoping the Jameson and Cokes didn’t erase the memorized instructions. Thankfully, Apple has made breaking into someone’s poorly protected Wi-Fi network a piece of cake, and I’m soon entering the Oasis’s password and connecting to the Internet.

I open my email and write a short update to Bob. Have arrived. In detox. So far, so undercover. I hit send and scan through my inbox. There are three emails from Greer and two from Rory sent ten minutes apart.

I open Greer’s first. It was sent at 6:44 p.m. yesterday.

K, is your phone dead? Let’s hook up 2nite. Bring your drinking boots.

The next one comes from someone named Patrick Morrissey, but the subject line says “From Greer,” so I know it isn’t someone trying to sell me a penis enhancer. It was sent at 8:32 p.m.

Some scrounger banker let me borrow his BB. Where RU?

I smile, thinking of Greer flirting with Steve before shifting her attention to a guy in a suit (she hates guys in suits) so she could finagle him into letting her use his BlackBerry. Classic Greer.

At the time of the last email (11:24 p.m.), Greer was clearly drunk.

I’m letting this guy take me home and you can’t stop me!

I laugh out loud, then smother my mouth with my hand. I listen carefully, but I don’t hear anything other than the birds twittering outside. For all I can tell, some psychotic addict has killed everyone in the place and I’m the last person alive.

Moving my fingers over the touch screen, I write Greer back.

Sorry about last night. It’s a long story, but I had to go away suddenly for work. I probably won’t be back for at least a month. Don’t worry. I’ll be in touch. Love, Katie.

I hesitate before opening Rory’s emails. The fact that there are two of them isn’t a good sign. Rory usually says what she has to say the first time around, and I’m pretty sure the double email has something to do with the breezy message I left her two days ago.

“Rory, Rory, quite contrary, something’s come up, and I have to go away on a new assignment! So, I won’t be able to take the job after all. I’ll let them know. Thanks so much for the help! Love you!”

Maybe I took the coward’s way out, but lying to Rory has never been my strong suit. I knew if I told her the truth she’d be horrified and shocked, and would probably persuade me to be horrified and shocked too. And I didn’t want anyone talking me out of taking this job.

Joanne was the only one I’d told, because I had to tell someone. She seemed like the safe choice since she has no real connection to my other friends (Rory and Greer both loathe her). Her reaction was typical Joanne—she just shrugged and asked for my share of the rent in advance. The only rehab-related comment she made was that she expected me to pay her back for all the wine I’d drunk when I got out.

I open the email.

You’re not answering your phone and you know I can’t stand talking to Joanne. I can’t believe you abandoned this job. I know it wasn’t what you hoped you’d be doing with your life, but it’s time to grow up. I thought you’d have a little more respect for me than this.

Jesus. She’s madder than I thought. And hurt. I’m an evil, evil person.

The second email picks up where the first one left off. Clearly ten minutes wasn’t enough time for her to calm down.

I can’t believe you’ve put me in this position. I really went out of my way to get you this job, you know, even though I knew I’d regret it. Don’t expect me to do anything for you ever again.

A tear runs down my cheek as I sit on my bed, in rehab, feeling very alone.

Several hours later, after I’ve attempted to eat some of the breakfast Carol brings me, stared out the window for an hour, and off into space for another, I get an IM from Greer on the messenger service I downloaded onto the iTouch.

Where the hell RU?

Secret mission.

U’ve joined the FBI.

No.

CIA?

No.

Cult?

No.

Joanne says UR in rehab.

God f*cking shit, Joanne! The last words I’d said to her were “Don’t tell anyone where I am.”

Joanne’s an idiot.

It’s OK if UR. I went to rehab 1x.

You did? When?

In 6th form.

How come?

Mam and pap thought I smoked 2 much pot.

Why?

Cuz I smoked 2 much pot.

What was it like?

Like pot.

LOL. I meant rehab.

Talky.

That’s it?

Didn’t stay long enough to find out.

Why not?

Did you know they don’t let you drink there?

There’s a knock on my door. I hastily shove the iTouch under the covers.

“Who is it?”

“It’s Carol,” she says as she opens the door. “How are you feeling today?”

“All right, I guess.”

She looks at the tray of mostly uneaten breakfast sitting on the dresser. “How come you’re not eating?”

“I don’t feel like it.”

“It’s important that you try to eat, Katie. We can’t move you out of the recovery wing until you need less medical supervision.”

I sit up straighter. I already want out of the recovery wing very badly.

“I’m sure I’ll be ready soon. I just needed to . . . well, sleep it off, really.”

“Recovery’s not something you can rush through.”

“I understand.”

“Good. I’ll be in to check on you a little later.”

She leaves, and I pull the iTouch out. There’s another IM from Greer waiting for me.

Where did you go?

Had to talk to the warden.

I knew it!!!

After lunch, I start going stir-crazy. Sure, at home, with the comforts of wine, a couch, and my TMZ, I’m happy to spend days at a time without even thinking about the outside. But put me in a white room and I don’t care what I’m supposed to be pretending to be, I need to get out of here.

Right now.

Feeling desperate, I push the emergency button. When Carol arrives a few minutes later, I ask her if I can go outside. She looks at my nearly empty lunch tray and agrees. As she leads me toward the front door, she explains that there are several walking paths through the woods that surround the lodge. She suggests I take the shortest one. I nod my head, barely listening. By the time we reach the front door, I feel almost giddy. She tells me to be back in an hour, and I step outside and raise my face toward the sky. Its weak warmth feels gentle and inviting.

I take the path Carol suggested through the flower gardens, following the meandering stones that mark it. The air is full of the perfume of the daffodils and crocuses that are pushing through the black earth. I round a bend and come across a couple of gardeners digging up one of the flower beds. One of them is about my age and looks incredibly familiar.

I shake my head. It must be the medication, because if I were straight right now I’d swear that was . . . oh no . . . it can’t be . . .

I crouch down behind a tied-up rosebush and peer at him through the twine. Right height, right build, right former quarterback good looks. And didn’t Mom say something about him starting a gardening service with his brother the last time I talked to her?

He turns his head toward me, and now I’m sure. Zack Smith, my high school boyfriend, is standing a hundred feet away from me shading his eyes from the sun with a weathered hand. In fact, he’s looking right at me.

Shit. He’s looking right at me. I’ve got to get the hell out of here. But how am I going to escape without calling attention to myself?

“Katie, is that you?”

F*ck, f*ck, f*ck. I so did not think coming here through.

I stand up, brushing a stray piece of bush from my jeans. “Hi, Zack.”

We walk toward one another and exchange an awkward hug. He smells like earth and sweat.

“What are you doing here?” he asks when we separate.

“Oh, you know, just a little medically supervised detox. You?”

He grins, revealing his still-perfect white teeth. The breeze blows a lock of his chocolate brown hair onto his forehead. “Oh yeah. Same here.”

“Are you serious?”

“Nah. You?”

“Unfortunately.”

His face grows serious. “Oh. Well, they help a lot of people here . . .”

“Yeah, that’s what I heard.”

I meet his warm brown eyes and am momentarily transported back to when we were the Perfect Couple and Mrs. Katie Smith covered every one of my notebooks.

“So . . . what are you in here for?” he asks.

Christ. I can’t believe the guy who taught me how to do a keg stand is looking at me like I’m dying of cancer.

“Oh, the usual, you know. Anyway, you’re still living around here, huh?”

“Yeah. Me and the wife and kids.”

The wife and kids. Jesus.

“Do I know her?”

“It’s Meghan.”

Of course it is. My mother mentioned that too. Meghan Stewart. My high school rival. White-blond and bouncy, she couldn’t quite manage a full beer bong. Now she’s married to my first imaginary husband, and I’m talking to him in a rehab garden. There’s a lesson in that somewhere, I know, but I can’t quite put my finger on it.

“That’s great, Zack.”

“Most days. You know, my oldest is in your sister’s class.”

Shit, that’s just what I need, for my sister to know I’m in rehab. I can imagine her reaction—gloating, superior. And, of course, her first instinct will be to tell my parents.

“Huh. That’s . . . funny.”

“Chrissie didn’t tell you?”

“I haven’t spoken to her in a while. Look, can you do me a favor and not tell anyone you saw me here? Especially my sister and my parents? They don’t know I’m here and . . .”

“You don’t need to explain. We have to keep patient information confidential anyway.”

“Right. And thanks. Anyway . . . I should get back to my room.”

“And I’d better get back to work.” He pulls me toward him again, hugging me close. “It’s good to see you, Katie.”

“Even in rehab?” I ask into the front of his shirt.

“Even in rehab.”

When I get back to my room, I spend a long time talking myself out of packing my bags and jumping the fence. I can’t believe I thought I could keep coming to rehab a secret, especially so close to home. How stupid can I be?

Do you really want me to answer that?

Shut it.

OK, OK. Calm down. The patients are supposed to be anonymous, right? I mean, the whole world knows TGND is here, but that’s because she’s an enormous celebrity. Who am I? Nobody. And Zack said he wouldn’t tell, or couldn’t tell, which is just as good.

Besides, is it really that big a deal if Mom and Dad find out? It’s not like they’re going to actually think I need to be in rehab. They’ll know something’s up, and I’ll let them in on the secret and it’ll be fine.

OK. Sounds like a plan. Though, just to be on the safe side . . .

I take out the iTouch and send my dad an email saying that I’m going on the road with some (made-up) band so my parents don’t call the apartment. Then I eat enough dinner to ensure that I don’t give anyone the impression that I still need “medical supervision” and try to ignore the strong urge to down several glasses of wine with my Salisbury steak. When I can’t, I take the two little pills that came with my dinner, and fall asleep at seven thirty.

In the morning, I feel better than I have in a long time, and I eat every bite of the breakfast Carol brings me. When I’m done, I sit on my knees staring out the window until Carol comes to take me to see Dr. Houston.

“Well, Katie,” he says after he’s given me another physical exam. “I can see you’re doing better. I think we can move you out of detox and into the cognitive therapy wing.”

Oh, thank God. Learning the steps, here I come.

“That’s great.”

“However, before we can move you there, we need to perform some diagnostic tests.”

I knew it was too good to be true.

“Why? I thought I was OK.”

“You are physically, but a lot of addicts have other psychiatric issues.”

“I’m not crazy.”

I only do crazy things sometimes.

He lifts a pen out of the pocket of his white lab coat and writes something on his clipboard. “It’s not a question of being crazy, Katie. We simply need to make sure there aren’t any underlying disorders that will impede your recovery.”

“What do I have to do?”

He takes some forms from a drawer and hands them to me. “You can begin by completing this diagnostic test. It will give us your basic psychological profile.” He unclips a couple of pieces of paper from his clipboard. “You’ll also need to fill this out.”

I take it. It’s the “Are You an Alcoholic?” form from two days ago. Joy.

“As you’re filling this out, I’d like you to think about what your answers mean. About the impact alcohol has had in your life.”

You mean all the good times? I’m guessing no.

Back in my room, I sit on my bed and work through the tests. The psychological assessment is a series of multiple-choice questions I vaguely remember from an Intro to Psychology class I took years ago. I toy with the idea of answering “C” to every question but discard it as the bad idea it is.

When I’m done, all I have left to do is discover whether I’m an alcoholic. As if they can tell that by answering a few silly questions. Well, here goes nothing.

Do you enjoy social events more when there is alcohol present? Well, obviously. Who doesn’t? Yes.

Have you ever been unable to remember events from the night before after drinking? Yes, thank God. Who wants to remember everything they’ve done after a night of drinking? Take that “birthday girl” comment from Steve. I’m pretty sure I have no interest in remembering all the gritty little details of that night.

Has drinking ever caused a problem between you and a friend or relative? Does Joanne count? No. Only . . . shit. What about that fight with Rory? She definitely counts. Fine, fine. No. Yes.

Do you stop drinking after one or two drinks, or keep drinking until you get drunk? Duh. You’ve got to keep the drinks rolling once you’ve started a buzz. Everybody knows that. Coming down from a buzz is, well . . . a buzzkill. And nobody likes a buzzkill. Yes.

Have you ever attended an AA meeting or other twelve-step program? No way. Not unless you pay me. Which I guess explains what I’m doing here. No.

Have you had unprotected sex because you were drunk? Sigh. Yes. Only . . . hold on a sec. It wasn’t because I was drunk. I was just young and stupid and really, really into Jack from my creative writing class. When we ended up half-naked at his place after many rounds of cheap beer and he said he didn’t have a condom, I told myself that he didn’t seem gay or have track marks and threw caution to the wind. But I did think about it. I might have made the same decision if I was sober. It’s possible. Yes. No.

Have you missed work or school because of drinking? Well, obviously, who hasn’t? If that’s a measure of someone having a drinking problem, then every one of my friends, and most of the population, has one too. OK, maybe the kids who go to Mormon college wouldn’t qualify, but that’s about it. Yes.

Can you drink more than most of your friends? Let’s see. Greer and Scott can definitely drink more than me. Rob and Toni are kind of lightweights, and so is Rory. Joanne doesn’t drink. Where does that leave me? I read the question again. Mmm . . . “most of your friends.” What if it’s a tie? Ah, f*ck it. Yes.

Does it take more alcohol to get drunk now than when you started drinking? Yes. Of course it does. It’s called “tolerance,” and it takes a while to build one up. And once you have, you have to maintain it. It’s a survival tool, really. How else do you make it past midnight at a university party?

Do you get drunk on a regular basis? Well . . . it’s not like I drink every day or anything. At least, it’s not like I get drunk every day. Not every day. But didn’t I tell Dr. Houston that I did? What did I tell him, anyway? The details are a little fuzzy, but I seem to recall something about two bottles of wine a day. Did I really say that? I guess that means . . . Yes.

Have you ever tried to cut down on your drinking? Yes. Wait a minute. Maybe that’s the wrong answer. Didn’t I talk about this with Dr. Houston too? Why the hell is he making me answer all these questions again? How am I supposed to keep all these details straight? I hate this f*cking questionnaire. Yes. No.

Do all of your friends drink alcohol on a regular basis? Finally, an easy question. Yes. I bloody well hope so.

Have you ever been arrested for drunk driving? Another easy one. No. Hah! See? I obviously don’t have a problem. I’m a safe drunk. I take cabs, I walk, sometimes I let other people drive drunk, but I never do. Never. Well, except for that one time when I drove Zack’s truck in high school, but that was just in a field, and I’d only had like three wine coolers, maybe four.

Do you have a family history of alcoholism? Mmm . . . didn’t Uncle Brad have to go away for a while? Wait. Was that rehab or just a mental institution? How did he end up there again? Oh, right. He found his girlfriend kissing some other guy at a bar and went crazy, smashing up the bar and the guy and maybe even his girlfriend. Then he went on a three-day bender that ended when he wrapped his car around a tree. Or something like that. It was hard to catch all the details my mother was whispering over the phone to her sister. I never saw Uncle Brad drinking any alcohol after that, though. He always asked for seltzer. So, I guess . . . Yes.

Last question. Do you use drugs on a regular basis? No, I write. Only since I came to rehab.

I must’ve passed the test, because Carol’s leading me to my new digs in the women’s wing, where I’ll spend the rest of my stay. As we walk through the building, she explains that the Oasis presently has twelve patients and that they never have more than twenty at any time.

I guess at $1,000 a day they can afford to keep it exclusive.

“You’re going to be rooming with Amy,” Carol says as we walk through the large common room that occupies the back of the main building. “We like to pair newcomers with patients who’ve been working the program well.”

“Does that mean she’ll be my sponsor?”

“No, you’ll get a sponsor when you join an AA or NA group once you go home. Our focus is on cognitive therapy. You’ll learn how to develop skills that will help you cope with life without using drugs or alcohol.”

Right, I remember. Coping skills, Days Five through forever.

“Is that what we do in group?”

“That’s right, but also in your individual therapy sessions, which will be more focused on your particular issues. Your first session is tomorrow morning with Dr. Bennett, who also leads group therapy.”

“So, that’s all we do? Individual therapy in the morning and group in the afternoon?”

“We have guest speakers sometimes as well.”

Now that sounds more interesting.

“Like celebrities?”

She frowns. “The speakers are generally former patients who’ve stayed sober. But since you brought it up . . . As you already know, we sometimes do have celebrity patients, but it’s important not to treat them any differently. They’re just like you: addicts trying to get help.”

“So who’s here? Would I know them?”

“Katie . . .”

“OK, OK, I got it. No asking for autographs. Don’t worry. I can behave.”

She stops in front of a nondescript door. “Good. Well, here we are.”

She knocks and opens the door. The room is much like the one I just left (barred window, simple furnishings, blue bedspreads, faint whiff of institution) but big enough for two twin beds with a nightstand in between. There’s evidence of my new roommate on the bed nearest the door, but she’s nowhere to be seen.

“Group starts in twenty minutes in the common room. I’ve left a list of the house rules on your bed. Do you need anything else?”

“I’m good, thanks.”

She pulls me into another one of her tight hugs. I give her back a few halfhearted pats, hoping she won’t notice my lack of response.

“This is where it really starts, Katie. And you only get out what you put in.”

Funny, that’s the same thing my trainer said when I decided to try getting into shape a few years ago. The gym membership was Rory’s Christmas present to me, and I’d been really determined. That was, until I was put through a rigorous series of crunches and lunges by a man who’d just gotten out of the Corps.

“You only get out what you put in, Katie,” he said as I was trying to do my first pull-up since the fifth grade. “Are you ready to give it your all?”

“Yes,” I managed to squeak.

“What? I can’t hear you!”

“Yes,” I yelled as I hung inches off the ground, unable to lift myself any further. My body hurt for three days, and I never went back.

“Right, I understand,” I say to Carol.

She leaves, and I sit down on my new bed. Lying on the pillow is a single sheet of paper containing a list of rules about mandatory therapy sessions and meals, no fraternizing between patients, and lights out at 10 p.m.

It’s funny because, with a few small alterations, this list is identical to the one that adorned the wall at my summer camp. Come to think of it, we weren’t allowed to leave there for thirty days, either. Of course, camp was, you know, fun. I’m guessing we aren’t going to be singing songs around a campfire here.

I fold the list into my journal—more atmosphere for my article—and unpack a few of my things. Then I take out the iTouch and log on. There’s no email from Rory, but there is one from Bob.

Kate, please provide a status report on the target. Bob.

What a sinister word, “target.” Like I’m an assassin, or at the helm of an X-wing fighter. I’m not here to kill anyone, buddy, just get them to spill their deepest, darkest secrets, or discover them by trickery if that doesn’t work.

Bob, they’ve had me in isolation until now. Expect to see TGND at group in a few minutes. Will send status report when can. Kate .

Is the emoticon too much? Oh, who cares? He can deal with it if it is. I send the email and slip the iTouch back into my bag, hiding it in my dirty underwear.

It’s time for group.

Group therapy takes place in the common room, which is in keeping with the hotel-like feel of the lobby. Its main feature is a picture window that frames an amazing view of the lake. Watching the sun play on the water, I feel a momentary urge to get a running start and dive through the window into the black lake. The leap would likely kill me, of course, but if I managed to get away, would they save me or let me take my chances with whatever monsters lurk below?

There are a dozen metal folding chairs arranged in a circle and a pot of strong-smelling coffee brewing on an oak side table that sits next to the window. The chairs hold an assortment of men and women who look in surprisingly good shape for a bunch of drug addicts and alcoholics. Of course, this is a class of addicts who can afford to go to the same place as TGND, so maybe they’ve never looked as depraved as the addicts in the this-is-what-you-look-like-if-you-do-crystal-meth ads. But does crystal meth care whose body it’s being snorted or injected into? Or do you smoke crystal meth? I can never remember.

And speaking of TGND, where the hell is she?

A dumpy woman in her mid-fifties with chin-length salt-and-pepper hair comes to greet me. She’s a few inches shorter than me and has a round face.

“You must be Katie. Welcome. I’m Dr. Bennett, but please call me Saundra.” I shake her soft, small hand. “Please take a seat—we’ll be starting in a minute.”

I sit down in one of the remaining empty chairs, suddenly nervous about what’s to come. Am I expected to talk on the first day? And what the hell am I going to say, anyway? Won’t this group of hardened users be able to see right through me?

Saundra calls the meeting to order. “All right, everyone. Settle down. We’re going to be talking about coping mechanisms for stressful situations today. But first, we have a new arrival, Katie.”

My nerves increase as ten pairs of eyes travel toward me. Shit! I’m definitely going to have to talk today. Couldn’t I learn some of those coping mechanisms first?

I raise my hand and give a little wave.

“I’d like to go around the room and have everyone introduce themselves. Katie, you can go last. Ted, would you like to start us off?”

They go one by one. Ted is a banker addicted to cocaine and alcohol. Mary is a novelist addicted to heroin. There’s also a pretty famous movie producer, a former child star if you use the term “star” very loosely, a Fortune 500 executive, an up-and-coming director, an investment banker, two lawyers, and a judge. Their addictions range from simple alcoholism to drugs I’ve never even heard of. Did you know, for example, that if you take fifty cold pills at once you start to hallucinate? Well, that’s what the investment banker was doing every day until two weeks ago. Who knew?

As it nears my turn someone climbs into the chair next to me. It’s TGND, Amber Sheppard in the flesh.

She’s wearing a bright green velour tracksuit that matches her large eyes, and her black hair is in a tight knot on top of her head. She’s much smaller than she looks on television (not more than five foot one) and very thin. She’s not wearing any makeup, but her skin still glows with youth and pampering. She looks odd, but beautiful.

And, oh yeah, she’s behaving rather strangely.

“Amber, what are you doing?” Saundra asks as TGND plants her bare feet in the middle of her chair and crouches on her heels, her arms up in front of her.

“Nothing.”

“We’ve talked about this, Amber.”

“My name is Polly the Frog.”

So that explains the crouching position. And the flitting tongue.

I look around. A few of the patients are laughing, but most of them simply look annoyed.

“This isn’t acting class, Amber. Please sit in your chair properly and introduce yourself.”

Amber’s cheeks flush with anger. “Fine.” She untucks her legs and sits in the chair. “My name is Polly, and I’m a frog.”

“Amber, please.”

“OK, OK. My name is Amber.”

“And why are you here?”

“Because I was kidnapped by my parents and brought here against my will.”

“Amber . . .”

“All right, all right. I’m addicted to alcohol and cocaine.”

“Thank you. Katie?”

My heart starts to pound. I’ve always hated public speaking.

“Hi. My name is Katie. I’m a writer, and um . . . I’m an alcoholic.”

“Hi, Katie!” says the group.

“Wrebbit!” says TGND.