Why did the dream give me only 225? It could mean so many things. Why couldn’t the woman seated behind the couch tell me the dream’s secret meaning? Why must there be a secret meaning? For a long moment 225 became my mind. I heard Sarah speak, and I added numbers in my head. Two plus two plus five was nine. Nine was the number of months I’d been struggling to free-associate on this couch. Was the couch nine years old? Two plus twenty-five was twenty-seven. My life changed when I was twenty-seven. Jung and Freud became part of my intellectual life that year, both on the same day. I had yet to experience therapy and discover that I wanted to train to be a therapist. Sarah was still speaking, and I wasn’t listening. Or was I? Did I want her to tell me a secret, so that I would have a mystery to think about? I didn’t want to face the unknown meaning of 225 alone. Did I just say that aloud? The dream gave me more than the number. In the dream, Sarah held a piece of paper with a number on it: 225. It was my dream. Why did she have the number? This was my psychoanalysis, wasn’t it? I heard myself ask the question aloud. Might this be the secret question I was afraid to face? Maybe future dreams would give me more numbers.