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a short wiry guy with a jutting Adam’s apple and stringy unwashed hair that hung down to his shoulders. He was wearing dirty sneakers, a washed-out rumpled plaid shirt, and faded skin-tight jeans. He identified himself as a reporter from The Phoenix, a tabloid I recognized from the supermarket. I wondered if it was a condition of employment that its reporters look as grungy as the content of the paper they worked for.
    He planted himself in front of me. “Mrs. Burnham, is it true that Erica Vogel broke up your marriage?”
    When I tried to push past him, he grabbed my arm, leaving red marks on my skin. His nose pressed into my face. “Was she sleeping with your husband while he was living with you? Did he leave you for her? How long had the affair been going on till you found out?”
    His breath was as offensive as his words.
    “Let go of me!” I jerked my arm free. “I don't have anything to say to you.”
    “Wouldn’t you like your story told?” he persisted. “You're the wronged woman. Talk to me. I’ll tell your side.”
    “Let me by. I have to get to my office.”
    He cornered me, pushed up against me. “She stole your man, and you whacked her, right?” His eyes pinned me, paralyzed me. “You were fighting for your family. Who could blame you? What jury would convict?”
    Everything blurred. My throat closed up, and all I could manage was a shake of my head. “No comment, no comment,” I got out finally. Not original, but it gave me the impetus to shove him out of my way. I ran to the stairwell, pulled open the door, and fled up the three flights of stairs to my office.
    My overeaters were standing around my reception area, little clusters of plump grapes, when I arrived, panting like a marathon runner at the finish line. I managed a shaky smile, told them I’d be right with them, and slipped into my office. I saw Ruth-Ann start toward me before I closed the door, but I waved her away.
    “I’m calm, I can cope with this. I'm safe now,” I said out loud. I dropped into my chair, struggling to put the unpleasant scene in the lobby out of my mind.
    There was a timid knock at my door. I knew it was Ruth-Ann, but I ignored it. It wouldn't do for her to see me looking frazzled. I’d have to lie, tell her I'd been in the bathroom and hadn’t heard the knock.
    I’m usually very careful not to do anything to damage Ruth-Ann’s self-image. Only five foot two, she weighs a hundred and fifty pounds. But two months ago she weighed a hundred and sixty-five.
    When she started in the group, she’d spent weeks sitting by herself, unwilling or unable to participate. That was when I suggested she come for private sessions on Sundays. We started out doing breathing and relaxation exercises. Then I taught her imagery where she would visualize herself as slim and self-confident. After several sessions I switched her to EEG biofeedback training, which involves my attaching sensors to the head and earlobes, with the client getting auditory and visual feedback from the computer in an effort to balance the brain waves. The client learns to play computer games, not with a joystick but with his or her brain. Addictive personalities like Ruth-Ann generally produce very little of the dreamy theta brain wave, so I put her on an alpha/theta protocol to help her increase production. At her fourth session she had what is known as an abreaction—-a reliving of a past, heretofore repressed memory.
    She was sitting across from me, keeping the beeps from the software program pretty constant, which meant her brain was accomplishing the task I'd set for it. I was watching the monitor and saw her theta amplitudes on the graph shoot up above her alpha in what’s called a crossover, the time when a client can begin to experience spontaneous imagery.
    Her muscle tension measurement suddenly went off the screen. Shaking from head to foot, she emitted an almost inhuman wail like an animal caught in a leg trap.
    “Where are you,