““Over the next three years, Mick and I would talk on and off about his drinking. To me, it hadn’t seemed like much, but I often remembered that night in the camper, how it seemed like something was missing. I told him maybe it would be a good idea to quit completely. He disagreed, saying he thought he could do it in moderation. It was a conversation I’d heard in my own head at age twenty-three, and one that I continued to have: I can control it. No, you can’t. Yes, I can. No, you can’t. At one point, Mick and I even argued. We let it get between us, and didn’t get together as often as we should have. Eventually, we both apologized, and things returned to normal. He quit drinking six weeks before he died. Things were going really well, his wife told me. Then one day, his heart just stopped. He was fifty-four.””
