I checked that my face was covered, then stepped up to the lectern. "Remember that this is a safe place. Don't judge, because everyone here is trying. Who wants to speak first?" The first person up was fully covered with the robe and hood, but I recognized his tennis shoes from previous weeks. "My name is Mike," he mumbled, "and I'm a murderer."

"Hi, Mike," we chorused.

"I still remember when I lost control. He was just a kid, fourteen or fifteen, and I was older and so cool." We'd all heard the story before, but when he sat down, the front of his hood was damp.

"Thanks, Mike," I said. "Who wants to follow him?"

The person who replaced him had a reedy, grandmother's voice. "My name is Agnes," she said, "and I'm a murderer."

"Hi, Agnes," said the chorus.

"I'm afraid I fell off the wagon this week." I rolled my eyes. She falls off the wagon every week. "I took my rifle down to the park, picked out some man and shot him." She paused. "I'll try to do better next week," she said quietly, and then sat down.

Some of us are trying harder than others.