MRS. WHITMAN KNEW all the expressions: Be careful what you wish for. You can’t undo what’s already done. Had calmer heads prevailed, she might have considered the ramifications of her initial panic, might have thought through the effect her contacting the other parents would have, might have sat down with her husband and talked this through. But as it was, she’d considered nothing, reacting instead to a mother’s concern for the well-being of her son and believing she was acting in his best interests.

“An ambulance is taking our son to the hospital,” said Gladis Philby over the phone.

“But…”

“Listen,” Philby’s mother said. “I know we think we know what’s going on. I’ve heard the theories from the Imagineers, and I hope to God they’re right. Of course I do. But the fact is, college fund program or not, my son’s in a coma, and I can’t take any chances. If they disqualify him, take him out of the program, well, honestly, maybe that’s for the best as long as I get my son back. I can’t stand this anymore, to tell you the truth. I’m done with it.”

“But if the Imagineers are right,” Mrs. Whitman said, “then the doctors might just make matters worse. That’s why we’re keeping our Finn at home. You heard what Bess Morton, Donnie’s aunt, said about Donnie? She has been through this—she’s the only one who has been through this—and the fact of the matter is, Terrance just woke up at some point and climbed out of bed fit as a fiddle.”

“If you want to count on that…on the word of a…of an…artist,” she said with a good deal of disdain, “that is of course your prerogative. We have elected to put our faith in the doctors.”

“I want to do what’s right,” Mrs. Whitman said. “I was just hoping we, the parents, might approach this in a similar—”

“We are doing what we feel we need to do. If you are trying to pressure me into—”

“Not at all!” Mrs. Whitman said. “I’m not trying to pressure you into anything.”

“What if they should never come back?” Mrs. Philby said, her words choked. “I don’t accept all this nonsense our children have told us about dreaming and traveling…if you ask me, it’s…well, I can’t even say it. It’s horrible is what it is. The evil of our society. Where our children, our dear, precious children, could ever get hold of such things—”

“It is not what you think!” Mrs. Whitman gasped.

“The doctors will run tests. We shall see what we see.”

“Our children—their holograms—are trapped inside the parks somewhere.”

“And you actually believe that nonsense,” Mrs. Philby replied, “which means this conversation is over.”

“If we work together,” Mrs. Whitman said, “maybe we can figure out where they’ve gone. Maybe we can find them and bring them back.”

“Listen to you!”

“The Overtakers have kidnapped Wayne. I…Finn…your son was here at my house. We…there was a cryptogram, a kind of mathematical—”

“I know what a cryptogram is!” Mrs. Philby said. “Will you listen to yourself, Mrs. Whitman? Will you listen to what you are saying?”

“I know it sounds—”

“Ridiculous? Absurd? Impossible? Yes, it does! And you? You’re delusional if you believe such…such garbage.” Mrs. Philby was breathing heavily into the phone. “What do you mean, he was at your house?”

“After school. He and our Finn and another of the—Willa…listen, I know how far-fetched all of it sounds. We’ve been asked to endure so much. But my point is: if there is some truth to what they say about what happened to Donnie Maybeck that time, about where they go at night, about Wayne and this…this war they seem to be fighting—”

“Would you just listen to yourself?”

“But if there is,” Mrs. Whitman persisted. “If there should be—”

“But there isn’t. How could there be?”

Mrs. Whitman felt a tremendous headache coming on. She gripped her head with her free hand and tried to be objective about what she was saying. She knew that if she were the one on the receiving end of her own argument she’d think the other person a nutcase.

“I don’t know,” she muttered.

“When the doctors render their opinion,” Mrs. Philby said, “I will contact you and the other parents.”

“Kind of you.”

“It’s the least I can do. Should I call this number?”

Mrs. Whitman gave her her mobile number instead.

“Are you…going out?” Mrs. Philby asked, as if Mrs. Whitman would be committing the ultimate bad-parent crime by leaving her comatose son in his present state.

“My husband will be here with Finn,” Mrs. Whitman said. “I…that is…Donnie’s aunt and I—”

“The artist?”

“The same. Yes. Donnie let slip something about Epcot.” She hesitated, knowing the scorn she faced for bringing up the subject. “We can’t just sit by and do nothing, you see?”

“But…you can’t possibly believe any of what they tell us!”

“Actually…well…that is…yes. I’m afraid I do.”