Back in the house, I’m less affected by the heat and the babble and the crush of people than I was earlier. Making the decision to talk about Georgia has unhitched some coil of reserve within me, and I feel a surprising unconcern about not only the speech but also my own circumstances. If I can tell this room of strangers about what happened to my friend, then surely someday I can tell my friends the details of what happened to me, or, more specifically, how I’ve reacted to what happened. I’ve never been one to believe in the cathartic power of spilling your guts. It works for some people, obviously; I don’t deny the efficacy of psychotherapy or close friendships or journaling. I’d experienced it a bit in my own writing, the sense of release that accompanies letting go. If you stop guarding your secrets, you relinquish the need to maintain all those mental walls. You’re free.

In theory, anyway. But in my own experience, trying to talk about my guilt regarding the decision to administer an unregulated, untested drug—and the subsequent decision of which child to try to save—left me wracked and useless after the only therapy session I’d attended. It exhausted me, dredging up those feelings. After leaving, I felt so much worse than I had when I entered, I vowed never to go back. Probably that was the wrong approach; I’m certain the therapist would have urged me to slog through the worst of it to emerge on the other side, stronger and freer. But I couldn’t face it. I never returned.

Now, though—now, suddenly, I feel differently. Maybe it’s the passage of time; maybe it’s hearing Compton speak so openly. But this crowd needs to hear something focused and personal. If I cannot talk about my own experience, maybe Georgia can—anonymously—be my proxy.

Before long, I’m back in the big room, where I see Josh, the guy who assisted me in Operation Urn Rescue, at the margin of the crowd. He grins and gives me two thumbs up as I make my way to the far end of the room. Someone has assembled a makeshift stage area in front of the colossal fireplace, which is a dreadful idea: the fireplace is in the process of consuming what appears to be a full-sized redwood, causing the air in front of it to undulate in shimmery waves from the heat. Dolly or Delilah or whatever her name is—the hostess—ascends the one step to the platform and with both hands dabs at the invisible sweat at her temples, the flames behind her casting a sinister Dantean glow onto the twenty-foot wall of stacked stone as they roar and leap. This, I think, is going to be like giving a speech in hell.

“Welcome, everyone,” says the hostess.