This wasn’t supposed to happen. I didn’t want to believe it. Everything was ready. In ten minutes, at 11 am, I would be connected to the Internet. A cup of coffee was alongside the laptop, up in the loft where the meeting of minds would happen. I almost wrote: unconscious minds. Skype wasn’t new to me. Neither was this acre of land, this cabin, or the beach below where I’d played as a child, the water, and the space upstairs with three skylights. I would start speaking, without knowing where the words would lead me, while the seemingly invisible other, supposedly in his downtown Seattle office, would listen and occasionally speak. I hoped the fire in the wood stove would last for fifty minutes. Maybe I should add another log. These first few days of January had been cold. I was wearing two tee shirts, a shirt, a sweater, and a jacket. The cabin was warming up. My mind was calming down. I wasn’t supposed to be in the San Juan Islands. I was in a four-times-a-week psychoanalysis. The couch was in a fourth floor office a block from Pike Place Market in downtown Seattle. Why did my psychoanalyst agree to this? I added another log to the fire, glanced through the windows at Orcas Island in the distance, and was about to walk up the stairs to the loft when an answer to my question arrived: your analyst didn’t have a choice. He was part of the dream like you.