Every Tuesday and Thursday at De La Campa, the patients sat in a circle and shared their woes and struggles with addiction in a collection of people that was called a 'support group'. Today was a Tuesday. It was customary for anyone new to the program to introduce himself. This particular Tuesday the newbie was Jerry, and he introduced himself as instructed.

"Hey. I'm Jerry Kohl, and I've been struggling with alcohol almost my whole life."

"Nice to meet you Jerry," the group chorused.

"So," began the group leader, whom all called by his first name, Eric, "Why do you think you fell into such a destructive habit."

"Well," began Jerry, his eyes shifting around the group nervously. "I guess I started it as a social thing, but it stopped being recreational when my mom died. Yeah. I guess it was then I hit the bottle."

Eric nodded sympathetically and said, "I'm sure we've all heard the expression 'time heals all wounds'. But that is not true. Some wounds never heal. They just become recalcitrant. An infected laceration that kills the surrounding flesh, so that you end up having to carry a rotten, stinking bit of death with you wherever you go. If you let it, such wounds will consume you. All you can do with such wounds is put maggots into it and let them eat away at the decaying flesh so that proper healing can begin!" He nodded fervently and concluded, "and that's what we do here at De La Campa."

"Y—you put maggots in our wounds?" said Jerry, gaping at him.

"Hypothetical maggots," he said hurriedly. "Hypothetical maggots of love!"