September 15th, a few days after the attack on the World Trade Center. Since September 11th, I had been going to the local fire station on East 85th Street to talk to people and do whatever grief or trauma counseling was even possible. Nine of the firemen, including the captain that I had known, died in the collapse of the World Trade Center. The fire station had become a shrine of mourning: Each evening 85th Street was closed to traffic as mourners gathered by the hundreds with candles and bunches of flowers. They prayed silently or sang a few songs like "Amazing Grace" or "America". Signs of tribute to the dead firemen covered the front and sidewall at the fire station. Amidst our collective grief there was still some hope on that Saturday -- the rescue workers had found some people still alive. The fire station no longer served it's original function; the two fire trucks were crushed in the rubble of the collapsed buildings. The firemen that had been off duty on Tuesday morning were now pressed into around-the-clock rescue service. Several of the firemen had been called out of retirement to attend the station house and to receive the condolences of the mourners. The retired firefighters were functioning more like chaplains than firemen. That Saturday night, near midnight, I was inside the fire station talking to one of the retired firemen when Hector began to call out the names of the lost firemen. Hector was drunk. He had