The doctor sits across from us at the steel table, mouth pursed. My wife’s hand goes clammy in mine.
“Well,” says the doctor, “aside from the things he says he sees, your son does not show any signs of mental illness. None.”
“That’s a relief,” I say, smiling. “Isn’t it, honey?”
“You said aside from the things he sees, Doctor,” says my wife. “What do you mean?”
“Perhaps he has an overactive imagination.”
“So you’re proposing that it’s an overactive imagination that makes him wake up screaming every night?”
I do not mention that I have begun seeing them too.