David M. didn't have an appointment. I found him standing in my doorway one afternoon, his body trembling, a look of desperation on his face. After a few moments of silence, he sat down in the chair I pointed to across from my desk and began his history with a twenty-year flashback.
His father's car was parked beside a cemetery on a lonely country road. Of course, it was a dark and stormy night and a scream from the back seat "pierced the darkness."
"I know this sounds like the beginning to a second-rate horror movie," David conceded in a nervous voice. "But that's exactly what my life's been- -a second-rate horror movie."
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