round, I stop a police officer and explain that I am looking for my son, a meth addict "The tweakers are hard to miss," he tells me He says that he knows where some may be hanging out and leads me along a path "Try over there," he says, indicating a grassy knoll under a magnolia tree, where a dozen people are congregated I approach a girl who is sitting on a bench apart from the group She is sylphic and wan, wrapped in a grimy French sailor's sweater When I get nearer, I see the telltale marks of meth: the tense jaw and pulsing body I introduce myself and she recoils "Are you a cop?" I say no, but tell her that it was a cop who had pointed her out I indicate the officer, who is walking away, and she seems to relax "He's cool," she says "He only hassles you if you cause trouble or do drugs near the little kids in the playground." She points Of course I know the playground Nic used to play secret agent there After small talk, I tell her about Nic, and ask if she knows him She asks me what he looks like I answer, and she shakes her head "That sounds like half the guys I know," she says "You won't find him if he doesn't want to be found." "Are you hungry? I don't have anything to do for a while I thought I might get something to eat." She nods, says "Sure," and so we walk to McDonald's, where she devours a cheeseburger "I've been on the crystal diet," she says I want to know how she got here She speaks in a quiet, halting voice, answering my questions "I was not a troublemaker," she says at one point "I was a sweet kid." She tells me that she played with dolls, was "the Twister queen," marched in the high school band, liked history, and was good in French "Comment allez-vous? est la bibliothèque, s'il vous plt?" She says that she read voraciously and names her favorite authors, counting them on her thin fingers It is a list that could have been Nic's, at least when he was younger Harper Lee, Tolkien, Dickens, E B White, Hemingway, Kafka, Lewis Carroll, Dostoyevsky "Fyodor was my god, The Brothers K was my bible, but now I don't read shit." She looks up and says, "Ya know, I was a pompom girl No shit I never made that prom, though." Her giggle is self-conscious, and she covers her mouth with a shaky hand, then pulls at her stringy hair "No fairy godmother saved the day." A boy gave her meth when she was fourteen That was five years ago She slurps her soda, and then, rocking back and forth in her seat, adds, "Meth Even though I know how fucked up it is, if I had the chance to start all over I would do it again I can't live without dope, don't want to You can't imagine how good it gets when it's good, and I need that in my life." She plucks a few pieces of ice from her cup of Coca-Cola and puts them on the table, flicking them with her fingers and watching them skitter across the plastic She tells me that her father is a banker; her mother, a real-estate agent They live in Ohio, in the house she grew up in "It's white, roses, picket fence—the American experience," she says Her parents hired a private detective to find her when she ran away from home the first time, catching a ride to San Francisco with a friend The detective traced her to a homeless shelter and persuaded her to return with him Back home, her parents brought her to a hospital to detox from crystal "It was hell I wanted to die." She stole a jar of Valium, and, the day she was discharged, overdosed on it After she recovered, her parents checked her into Hazelden, the well-known Midwestern drug-rehab facility, but she ran away from there, too Her parents found her again and sent her to a different rehab center "It's bullshit, a cult," she says of the programs "All that God shit." She ran away again, scored crank from an old boyfriend, and hitchhiked back to San Francisco, riding most of the way with a meth-smoking truck driver She settled in the Haight, where she began dealing and "slamming"—that is, shooting—crystal She says she lives in a garage with a space heater and no running water, sleeps on an old mattress She tells me she uses crystal almost every day, smokes it and shoots it; stays up for seventy-two or more hours at a time; sleeps, when she does, for days; has "freaky" nightmares She was in the emergency room three times, once each for pneumonia, some "stomach thing, I was coughing up blood," and for "freaking out." She makes enough money for coffee and cigarettes by panhandling She stabbed a guy once, "just in the leg," and pays for meth by dealing "When I can't pay, I give a blow job or whatever." She says this and then seems embarrassed, somehow jarred by the memory of an ossified emotion She turns her head to the side and looks down In profile, with her unwashed hair hanging down, she looks half her age "I am a bitch if I can't score," she says "On meth I'm all right." "What about your parents?" "What about them?" "Do you miss them?" "Not much Yeah I guess." "You should contact them." "Why?" "I'm sure they miss you, and worry They could help you." "They would tell me to go back into rehab." "Maybe it's not a bad idea." "Been there, done that." "At least call them Let them know you're alive." She doesn't respond "Call them I know they'd want to know you're alive." I drive home Without Nic Wonder about the girl's parents If they are anything like I imagine them to be—that is, anything like me— whatever they are doing at this moment they are doing it perfunctorily with only a portion of their consciousness They are never free of worry about their daughter They wonder what went wrong They wonder if she is alive They wonder if it is their fault I torment myself with the same unanswerable questions: Did I spoil him? Was I too lenient? Did I give him too little attention? Too much? If only we never moved to the country If only I never used drugs If only his mother and I had stayed together If only and if only and if only Guilt and self-blame are typical responses of addicts' parents In Addict in the Family, a remarkably useful book, Beverly Conyers wrote, "Most parents, when looking back on how they raised their children, have at least some regrets They may wish that they had been more or less strict, that they had expected more or less of their children, that they had spent more time with them, or that they had not been so overprotective They may reflect on difficult events, such as a divorce or death in the family, and see these as turning points in their child's mental health Some may bear heavy burdens of shame over past difficulties, such as an infidelity that damaged the family and caused mistrust Whatever the parental failings may be, it is almost inevitable that the addicts will recognize these vulnerable spots and take advantage of the parents ... Some may bear heavy burdens of shame over past difficulties, such as an infidelity that damaged the family and caused mistrust Whatever the parental failings may be, it is almost inevitable that the addicts will recognize these vulnerable... Her parents found her again and sent her to a different rehab center "It's bullshit, a cult," she says of the programs "All that God shit." She ran away again, scored crank from an old boyfriend, and hitchhiked back to San Francisco, riding most of the... makes enough money for coffee and cigarettes by panhandling She stabbed a guy once, "just in the leg," and pays for meth by dealing "When I can't pay, I give a blow job or whatever." She says this and then seems embarrassed, somehow jarred by the memory of an