this was the end of my traumatic reaction. The following Wednesday night I took my man's group to the fire station. Three of the men had been unable to grieve; they were mesmerized by the repeated television scenes. Their disavowal of affect took the form of fascination with how the building collapsed or a loss of reality in the form of "I've seen this film before". Two of the men reported quietly weeping every time they saw a missing person sign on a tree or lamppost. Two others had escaped the fire and collapsed buildings. We worked as a group in a circle on the floor of the fire station where the destroyed fire trucks once parked. The retired firemen showed us photographs of the dead firemen holding their babies and young children. The reality of the tragedy was right in our faces. The whole group wept. Some expressed their outrage. Perhaps a hundred people stood around and watched our group process as we talked about our feelings and held each other. Hector was again in the crowd of mourners but this time he was sober and no longer boisterous. On the way back we stopped to look at a car that had been parked in front of my office for a week. The car was covered in white ash and on the front window it bore a firefighter's parking permit. Someone had written in the white ash with his or her finger, "You gave us your life. You are