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A group of sober alcoholics, making sure no one got left behind: my home group.
"You're not really going to a meeting tonight, are you?" My wife knew I'd been working hard and sleeping badly for a week. Townies called the mid-March Maine snowstorm still in progress "mushy rain." About six inches of the stuff lay across my driveway, with more on the way. But I'd agreed the week before to fill in for the set-up guy, who was out of town. "Only a few guys are going to show up," my wife warned, "all of them with four-wheel drive. You could stay home and get some rest. Nobody would care."