I looked down at the tape, turning inexorably on its spindle. I wanted to make sure that it was still running. Abelard followed my eyes.

“Turn that damn thing off,” he said.

“Yes, sir.” I had no choice. By that point I was in his power as much as he was in mine.

“I found a doctor in Pennsylvania who would treat me, under the strictest confidentiality. He found my situation so extreme that he recommended immediate hospitalization. Fortunately, it was summer, and I could simply say I was taking a long vacation.” Abelard paused and looked out the window toward the lone pinnacle of the Washington Monument. He was lost in time for a moment, remembering what must have been the most painful day of all—the day he dared to walk away from the capital of denial and seek help. And then he was back in the present, across the table from me.

“My friends,” he continued, “the ones who had sensed what I was going through, protected me. I found drugs that allowed me to work normally—better than that, for my old ‘normal’ self had been a diligently constructed lie. And I began to live and share life again with others.”

“I see.” I was moved by what he had said, but I was also playing the words back in my mind, so that I would be able to write them down as soon as I left his office.

“But I have always known that, at some point, I might find myself in a room like this, with someone like you. This became more likely when I decided to run for president, but I chose to take the risk. I was under no illusion about the public’s attitude toward illnesses such as mine. Despite my profound belief in the value of the therapy I received, I knew that my candidacy could not survive public exposure of my hospitalization and treatment. That is a reality I cannot escape.

“Mr. Truell,” he said, leaning toward me. “I must ask you one question, and it is the only one that matters. Will you publish this story about my treatment for depression? Because if you do, I am certain it will mean the end of my candidacy.”

I closed my eyes and tried for a moment to think. What could I say that would respond to the power of what he had told me? I could only tell him the truth.

“I don’t know whether we’ll publish it, Senator. I’m sorry. I don’t know. We’re going to meet tomorrow with our lawyer and the executive editor to discuss what to do.”

“That means it is possible that you will run the story, even after what I have told you. That is what I infer. Am I correct?”

“Yes,” I said. “It is certainly possible that we will run the story.”