Leaving Las Vegas

Las Vegas is about a three-hour drive from my house in Lake Arrowhead, and back in the day, under the influence of alcohol, coke, or meth, I could make it in just over two. Easy. But this time, when I come to Vegas, it is with my wife and youngest son. I do not speed, at least not excessively, and I am no longer drinking or using. Instead I am here to visit my middle son who works in law enforcement. He lives in Wyoming and we don't see each other nearly enough, but he's taking part in counterterrorism tactical drills on the outskirts of Vegas, and this is a good opportunity to drive out and visit with him after he finishes training. We meet up with Logan and his girlfriend for dinner at seven o'clock at Cucina by Wolfgang Puck on October 1, 2017. In three hours and five minutes, the deadliest mass shooting in U.S. history will occur.

There is a time, early in my sobriety, when I could not have gone to Vegas without putting myself in serious jeopardy of relapsing. But that time has passed. Alcohol no longer concerns me. I no longer fear being around it. When the hostess seats us, and the waiter comes by to take our drink orders, Nate leans in close to me. He lowers his voice.

"It won't bother you if I have a glass of wine?"

"No," I say. "Go right ahead."

"You sure?"

I smile.

"You're twenty-one," I say.

He's a considerate young man. All my sons are considerate and thoughtful, including Andy, my oldest, who is getting married in two weeks and could not make this trip. They have seen their father as a drunk and they have seen him as a better man. I have regained the respect I lost but only because they have allowed it, only because they have opened their hearts to me again, and keeping that respect, which is also their love, has everything to do with my sobriety.

My wife Paula, Logan, and his girlfriend also order wine. Paula rarely drinks and never when we go out for dinner alone. This is another thing I don't understand. Why bother drinking if you don't want to get drunk, really drunk? This, plainly, is another reason why she can safely drink and I cannot. Once I start, I have no cut-off point short of unconsciousness.

In my teens, alcohol made me silly and cheerful. I could count on having a good time. By my late twenties, however, my moods and behavior became increasingly less predictable, and if there is one person at the table who concerns me, it is Logan. I love all of my boys the same and differently, for they are each their own person. They each, in their own ways, embody both strengths and weaknesses of their parents, but Logan is too much like myself with his resolute temperament and tough exterior masking deep emotional vulnerabilities. I've seen him drunk before and his disposition can fluctuate widely from good-naturedness to anger without a moment's notice. This same month last year, when I visited him in Wyoming, he participated in a fundraiser for our wounded Green Berets, Army Rangers, and their Gold Star families, and after leading a tactical unit in an urban-breach exhibition, his team bought him drinks at the bar.

He seemed fine.

He seemed like a happy drunk. But later, on the drive back to our motel, his mood turned dark. I saw too much of myself in my boy that night, and it scared me. It scares me now. A single incident like this is not necessarily indicative of alcoholism, but law enforcement and military, like writers, are notorious for their drinking and partying, and so I worry. I worry that if he is not careful he will damage what he has with the pretty young girl seated beside him, this girl named Courtney who has just moved in with him, as I damaged what I had with his mother. The same...