That evening, Ryder sat hunched at his kitchen counter, the only light in the room a golden spill from the farmhouse pendants overhead. His thumb dragged absently over the edges of the brochures Dr. Brown had sent home with him, fanning them like a deck of high-stakes cards. One caught and held him—the title Crossroads Group Counseling arched above the image of a lone cowboy kneeling at a wooden cross, his horse standing watch behind him. It was a scene he knew by muscle memory: hat in hand, sky wide and unblinking, the air smelling faintly of leather and dust.
He read the meeting times twice, glanced at his Rolex—an old habit from the Manhattan boardroom days—and pushed back from the counter. Grabbing his hat from its hook, he stepped out into the bruised purple of a Missouri twilight.
