Chicago, 1953. A cramped second-floor counseling room on Drexel Avenue, half a block from the University of Chicago campus, has become a sanctuary of quiet amid the bustling city. The afternoon sun filters through a narrow window, illuminating motes of dust that hang in the still air. Two people sit facing each other in plain wooden chairs – no couch, no desk between them, nothing to distract from the human encounter. On one chair, a young man in his twenties leans forward, elbows on his knees, head bowed. He struggles to find words, his voice low and taut with shame. He’s a war veteran turned student, and life off the battlefield has been bewildering; nights bring nightmares, days bring a sense of disconnection from everyone around him. On the other chair sits Carl Rogers, quietly attentive. Rogers’s posture is relaxed yet engaged, his hands loosely folded in his lap, his gaze warm and steady behind steel-rimmed glasses.