As the farewell banquet of my fiftieth medical school reunion came to a close, Robert Brent, my old friend, my only remaining friend from medical school days, gestured to me that he needed to talk. Though we had taken different professional directions, he into heart surgery and I into the talking cure for broken hearts, we had established a close bond that we both knew would be lifelong. When Bob took my arm to pull me aside, I knew something portentous was up. Bob rarely touched me. We shrinks notice things like that. He leaned to my ear and rasped, "Something heavy is going on... the past is erupting... my two lives, night and day, are joining. I need to talk."