By the second day, attendance was down by half and even the speakers on the dais—three L.A.-based analysts—looked unhappy to be there. I might have felt sorry for Katarina, but she seemed unaware of it all, continuing to flash slides of her father—dark-haired and goateed in healthier days—working at a big, carved desk surrounded by talismans and books, drawing in crayon with a young patient, writing in the brandied light of a Tiffany lamp.

Then another batch: posing with his arm around her—even as a teenager, she'd looked old, and they could have been lovers—followed by shots of a blanket-swaddled old man sunk low in an electric wheelchair, positioned atop a high, brown bluff. Behind him the ocean was beautiful and blue, mocking his senescence.

A sad variation upon the home-movie trap. The few remaining attendees looked away in embarrassment.

Harvey Rosenblatt seemed especially pained; I saw him shade his eyes and study some scribbled notes that he'd already read from.

A tall, shambling, gray-bearded fellow in his forties, he struck up a conversation with me as we waited for the afternoon session to begin. His warmth seemed more than just therapeutic veneer. Unusually forthcoming for an analyst, he talked easily about his practice in mid-Manhattan, his twenty-year marriage to a psychologist, and the joys and challenges of raising three children. The youngest was a fifteen-year-old boy whom he'd brought with him.

“He's back at the hotel,” he said, “watching movies on pay-TV—probably the dirty ones, right? I promised to get back in an hour and take him out to Disneyland—do you have any idea how late they're open?”

“During the winter, I think only till six or so.”

“Oh.” He frowned. “Guess we'll have to do that tomorrow; hopefully, Josh can deal with it.”

“Does he like arcade games?” I said.

“Does a duck quack?”

“Why don't you try the Santa Monica pier. It's open late.”

“Okay—that sounds good, thanks. Do they have good hot dogs by any chance?”

“I know they have hot dogs, but I can't vouch for them being gourmet.”

He smiled. “Josh is a hot dog connoisseur, Alex.” He puffed his cheeks and smoothed his beard. “Too bad about Disneyland. I hate to disappoint him.”

“Challenges of parenthood, huh?” I said.

He smiled. “He's a sweet kid. I brought him with me hoping to turn it into a semi-vacation for both of us. I try to do that with each of them when they're old enough. It's hard to reconcile working with other people's kids when you can't find time for your own—you have any?”

I shook my head.

“It's an education, believe me. Worth more than ten years of school.”

“Do you treat only children?” I said.

“Half and half. Actually, I find myself doing less and less child work as time goes on.”

“Why's that?”