"What do you do if you don't want to live?"

There's no margin for error in answering that question, especially when it comes out of the blue handwritten on a 3-by-5-inch index card from somebody in the audience I can't see and don't know and in a very public place, in front of an audience at the 92nd Street Y in New York. No time even to weigh a thoughtful response.

Only for a split second was I tongue-tied; it took just a moment for me to get the spark of words down from my brain and out my mouth.

"Well, you've done it, the hardest part. You've asked for help," I replied, vainly scrutinizing the shadows in the crowd beyond the bright stage lights in search of the anonymous, invisible questioner. "Turn to the person next to you, and ask him or her for help. That's the first step. You have a room filled with people who can help you."

Indeed, the audience was well-stocked with people who had themselves overcome the dread of dying in the grips of their addiction or mental illness and with the experts — treatment counselors, therapists, social workers and doctors — whose jobs save them. We'd gathered for a community conversation about addiction and recovery. A perfect time and place for a group-hug answer to the harshest, loneliest question.

Except that the questioner wasn't there anymore. By the time the scribbled card reached the front of the auditorium, the writer had bolted from his seat and walked out, though I didn't know it until later. In the meantime, there was an awkward, expectant pause, as if the audience was poised but didn't know which way to reach out to that person's aid. It took another minute or two for our collective spirit to steady itself and get back to all the other issues that now seemed dwarfed by life or death in the balance of one troubled soul.

When the event ended, I was handed a scrap of paper with a name and phone number. I'm not sure how that information was gotten. But the next morning, I called the number and left a voice message and, within an hour, had a callback from somebody who was ready to talk. Through tears, the questioner told a story of life under the influence of substances, many relapses, persistent mental illness and a suicide bid that defied the odds and failed somehow. "I don't know what to do anymore," said the caller.

This time, I was ready. I knew exactly what to say, the same message from the night before. "You've asked for help. That really is the hardest part. Now you can get it." Tears, a long sigh of relief, and then the voice on the other end repeated, "Help me."

That was two weeks ago. The person who needed help got it. Here's an update in his words:

"I think I must always have wanted to live more than die deep down ... but things are starting to align in ways even my overly logical mind (defense mechanism, right?) finds odd. Now I keep hearing over and over this quote from Neil Young:

"'I want to live.

"'I want to give.

"'I've been a miner for a heart of gold.'"

A precious vein finally discovered after drilling down through the toughest question.

William Moyers is the vice president of public affairs and community relations for the Hazelden Foundation and the author of "Broken," his best-selling memoirs. His new book, "Now What? An Insider's Guide to Addiction and Recovery," has just been published. Please send your questions to William Moyers at [email protected]. To find out more about William Moyers and read his past columns, visit the Creators Syndicate Web page at www.creators.com.