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, ...