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</a> I spent 60 days at Hodera, where I slept in a mosquito-infested dorm with 16 other men, subsisted on a diet of rice and beans, performed labor therapy in the fields, and attended addiction-education classes. By the time I left, the Spanish I had struggled to master all my life was close to fluent, I was 25 pounds lighter, and I had put together more consecutive sober days than I ever had since the age of 16. The day I walked beyond the gate that divided Hodera from the rest of the world, with just enough money for bus fare, it was as if I was seeing everything — a baby, a horse, a woman — for the first time. When the bus dropped me off in Jinotepe, where my uncle lived, I spent nearly an hour on a bench in the central park watching the vendors and passers-by, nearly overwhelmed by the cinematic vividness of it all. I then walked to the office of my uncle's non-profit. He was in Mexico on business, but one of his assistants, a distant cousin of mine, let me in.
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