Addicts are other people, with a dirty needle in a toilet stall. What they have is a pharmaceutical product, made in a lab, by pretty girls in masks who hold test tubes up to the light, with wondrous concern radiating from their clear blue eyes. They’ve seen it on the television, in the breaks between innings. But in fact they’re running worse risks. Those patches ain’t made for licking. Fifty thousand people died last year. Regular folk. Four times as many as got killed in gun crimes.
“Do you know what an accessory is?” “Something you put on your truck.” “Also a legal word,” Reacher said. “It means if you know a secret, and you don’t tell, then you go to jail too. …”
I couldn’t get in. They’re sealed tighter than a duck’s butt on a choppy day. I
“Sometimes,” Reacher said. “How often?” “More than never. Less than always.”