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He ran at me, the stamp cocked above his head, and brought it down on my shoulder, the sharp corner piercing my flesh.

I doubled over in pain. “What the hell!”

I pulled tentatively at the gash on my shoulder. My eagle feather was smeared, the black ink mingling with bright blood. It hurt, but I also felt relief as a red stream wound down my arm.

José beamed at his handiwork, and after a second of hesitation, we laughed together like maniacs.

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In the spring of 2006, several years after my initial encounter with José, I was in a very bad way. I had recently lost my wife of 13 years to a divorce, a young friend to brain cancer, and my beloved Maman to the inevitable march of time. The sick cinema in my head played a continuous loop of rage and self-pity. I had begun crying late the previous year, and I couldn’t stop.

I was ashamed that my four kids had to see me in such a wretched state, but even as I resolved to get a grip—seeing therapists, exhausting friendships, and self-medicating—I remained prisoner to a vicious depression. And when panic attacked late at night, I often called José, who had become a trusted friend.