Let it snow
His name was Paul and he spoke of gratitude. With a knitted Irish cap pulled tightly over his scalp, he peered through round lenses, his booming baritone filling the room. It was Christmas Eve in central Virginia and the group of recovering alcoholics listened closely."I used to carry a snub-nosed revolver in my jacket pocket," he said. "Just in case."I had heard his story before, the risky midnight ventures into seedy neighborhoods, the amphetamines, drunken blackouts, his pickup idling on the front lawn while the sun rose and his wife freaked.
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