"Have you ever heard of Un Ministerio Que Responda a la Agresión?" he asked, looking comfortable and smug as he continued to type unabated on his phone. She felt like smacking him.

"Would this 'UMQRA' be a CBO?"

"Come again?"

"A community-based organization?"

"You tell me."

The name of the organization sounded both familiar and unfamiliar to Alé, like a song she heard in the grocery store frequently but couldn't name.

"It's a fairly generic title, probably limited to a small community. It actually sounds like a political advocacy group. Maybe an organizing committee. In an area that's got a lowish average income per household."

"Ah."

It wasn't clear if he believed her, so she asked, "What is it that you think you're looking for?"

It took him some time to disengage himself from his texting, whereupon he merely queried, "I'm sorry, what?"

"You heard me."

He didn't look at her. "I have heard that it is a subsidiary of a church program for inner-city addicts," he replied, his tone serious. "The church's program advertises total recovery for their members. Not exactly the most feasible claim," he concluded with a haughty tone that, despite its scorn, suggested he knew the difficulty of addiction recovery too well.

She studied him, and wondered why he was looking for such an organization. Even in the darkness with nothing but the translucent glow of his phone to illuminate his face, she could tell that he himself had been a user, if he was not one presently.

The compulsive meticulousness of his attire contrasted with his sloppy unkempt hair and gaunt appearance; he looked like an individual trying to live down past transgressions of hygiene and prove sobriety to friends and family through the façade of being well-groomed, despite the fact that he cared not one whit for taking care of himself. His frantic, obsessive typing on his phone was no doubt a habit formed originally as a means of tweaking while high.

Moreover, texting was a means of communication that provided a veil between himself and the subject of contact, a tool valuable for circumstances when speech might reveal too easily of a secret case of self-indulgence. So much easier to lie via text message than speech when high. Sharpness of tongue coincided as well with the picture; it bespoke of a negative attitude towards life (frequently an underlying causal factor in addiction) as well as having gotten used to saying things without any restraint (a tendency formed as mind-altering drugs inhibited the filtering process between his mouth and mind). He also had an urgent, electric, impulsive energy to him that suggested he must have driven whoever was next to him in the plane ride across the continent absolutely loco.

He did seem to be on a business trip ... but was it perhaps a guise for an embarrassed family who insisted upon a secret rehabilitation abroad to which he was resistant? Or maybe he had AIDs? After all, Santa Barbara was a place for rich folks to retire and eventually die, facilitating the process with its cottage hospital and new-age healing centers.

If that were the case, however, she realized, he would be armed with an address and would not be asking her about whether she knew about the agency. And the name of the agency he sought would be something like "New Hope Health Center." And possible political advocacy groups would never enter the equation.

No, while the coincidence of his using drugs was notable, she decided it was not entirely relevant to his purpose in California; it was clear he expected to be here only for a short visit. Perhaps he was acting as an expert witness for some high-profile case.

"Anyway, I haven't heard of this U.M.Q.R.A.," she said, "but it appears that congratulations are in order."

He frowned. "For what?"

"For beating the habit yourself. Don't deny it; your eyes betray you. But it looks like you haven't quite overcome that other habit."

He cocked his head and looked directly at her, slightly surprised but not bewildered.

"I saw you pick up the nicotine patch wrapper that'd fallen out of your pocket when you got out of your car. Besides, you're as irritable and restless as my cousin's fussy three-year-old ... it's textbook, and I've seen it all before."

Not appearing totally comfortable with being compared to a toddler, he turned his head away, and Alé saw his left hand twist the spongy corner of the worn fabric seat with the ferocity of a hawk grappling a rabbit. And, as the cuff of his shirt-sleeve pulled up, she saw that there was not one but three patches on his left forearm.

She felt an immense amount of pity, and succumbing to this, she said, "There's a brown bag in the glove compartment...give it to me."

He obeyed wordlessly, and she could tell that he knew what was inside before he touched it. It was with great reluctance that he placed the unviolated bag into her hand. Without looking at him, she opened the package, removed one cigarette, and tossed the rest of the package in the back of the car. Then, with a lighter from her cupholder, she lit one cigarette, holding it in her left hand and letting it burn outside the window.

"I'm not an enabler," she insisted as he breathed deeply of the secondhand smoke, she herself keeping her breaths shallow, "and you know that if I said anything to justify what I'm doing at the moment, I'd be morally questionable.

"You don't deserve this smoke because of the stress of this mess, 'cuz it's not a reward to get lung cancer.

"You don't need it to deal with this mess, 'cuz you are plenty capable of dealing with any situation on your own with nothing more than the proper fuel that God gave you in the form of glucose and oxygen and a handful of other elements.

"You can't blame lack of it for this mess, 'cuz it's not appropriate to blame your body for doing the things it needs to do to heal. Or for your passion for texting, which is an addiction in and of itself.

"And lastly, I hope your reason forbids you from wanting it under any circumstances in the first place. Don't you imagine yourself to be a reasonable man?"

"That was a practiced lecture," he said dryly, though it was clear he was chagrined; he wasn't inhaling self-indulgently any longer, and his face was pinched with discomfiture.

"Thank you." She dropped the cigarette onto the freeway without batting an eyelash.