Hartford         Work kept Woody on the straight and narrow.  The kitchen was a cocoon he could wrap around himself.  He couldn’t say he loved his job, but it served a purpose.  The time it  occupied kept his mind off drinking.  He’d fallen into a schedule, up at five,  in work from six to two thirty and home in time for tea by four.  The routine lulled him into the belief that everything would work out and his life would keep him out of shelters and low on the radar.          It was a Monday and Woody was coming home.  As he approached Sophie’s house he noticed a knot of people on the sidewalk outside.  He immediately thought that the old lady had a…