Seven
FRIDAY AFTERNOON, I walk into the church basement and find a beehive of activity. Men under the direction of Bill Brandt are moving tables and chairs into position for the workshop. The clatter and banging of pots and pans from the kitchen signal that the Ladies of Charity are hard at work on the next day’s lunch. I pause just inside the door and look around, appearing to take everything in with an appraising eye.
What I’m really doing is appraising myself.
While being in this basement has never triggered a panic attack, my therapist said I shouldn’t take it for granted that I’d never have one here.
I focus on my breathing, steady and regular, in through the nose and out through the mouth. My heartbeat seems normal. I have no ringing in my ears, just the sound of committed servan
