By Waylon Cunningham Adams Publishing Group
Original Source: wyomingnews.com
Tucked between a barber shop and an antiques store along a dark highway into Knoxville, Tennessee, the Flatiron Club is easy to miss driving by at night. Its only announcement, completely invisible in the dark, is a small, unlit sign above the door.
Inside, two older men and a woman holding a Styrofoam cup loiter in the fluorescent-lit space. A nearby foldout table and chairs sit unused. A young man, thick-armed in a tight black shirt, walks in.
“Sorry,” an older man tells him, “the meeting’s been canceled – the organizers got sick, no one came.” Then he pauses to reconsider. “Pull up a chair,” he says.
Seated around the table meant for a much larger group, the four are quiet at first. The young man, though he’s normally reserved, begins to speak.
“Hi, my name is David,” he says, “and I’m an addict.”
Then the room, white and sterile-looking, comes alive with…click here to continue reading