One evening in 1985, the telephone rang. It was my brother John who lived in Washington, D.C. A call from my elder sibling was highly unusual. A year my senior, John hadn’t connected with me for several years. It wasn’t that we disliked each other; we loved one another. We simply didn’t have much in common and, therefore, little to talk about. He was a big city, government lawyer, married with a family. I was an ex-hippie acupuncturist living the single life in Boston.

When I answered the telephone, it took me a moment to recognize my brother’s voice. John was crying profusely, his voice conveying a feeling of terror and extreme loss. I’d never heard my brother in this condition. He was ordinarily a bastion of macho strength and bravado.