I first met in person with Mary E on the summer of 2007.

I had arranged with her husband and 15 years' parents to see her for an interview.

Mary had initially agreed since I was not a newsman, rather an amateur writer gathering

information for a few early college assignments, and, if all went according to plan, some

pieces of fiction.

We scheduled the interview for a particular weekend when I was in Chicago and unrelated

business.

At the last moment, Mary changed her mind and locked herself in the couple's bedroom,

refusing to meet with me.

For half an hour I sat with Terence as we camped outside the bedroom door.

I listened, taking notes, while he attempted fruitlessly to calm his wife.

The things Mary said made little sense, but fit with the pattern I was expecting.

I couldn't see her.

I could tell from a voice that she was crying.

And were often the not, her objections to speaking with me centered around an incoherent

diatribe on her dreams, or nightmares.

Terence apologized profusely when we seized the exercise, and I did my best to take it

and stride.

Recall that I wasn't a reporter in search of a story, but merely a curious young man in

search of information.

Besides, I thought at the time, I could perhaps find another similar case if I put my mind

and resources to it.

...