This is the great gift bestowed by a combination of Zappit-induced hypnosis and Brady’s own ability to invade minds once they are in that open and suggestible state. Ordinary fears, the ones kids like this live with as a kind of unpleasant background noise, can be turned into ravening monsters. Small balloons of paranoia can be inflated until they are as big as floats in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade.

“You could stop being scared,” Brady says. “And you could make your mother very, very sorry.”

Ellen smiles through her tears.

“You could leave all this behind.”

“I could. I could leave it behind.”

“You could be at peace.”

“Peace,” she says, and sighs.

How wonderful this is. It took weeks with Martine Stover’s mother, who was always leaving the demo screen to play her goddam solitaire, and days with Barbara Robinson. With Ruth Scapelli and this pimple-faced crybaby in her poofy-pink girl’s bedroom? Mere minutes. But then, Brady thinks, I always had a steep learning curve.

“Do you have your phone, Ellen?”

“Here.” She reaches under a decorative throw pillow. Her phone is also poofy-pink.

“You should post on Facebook and Twitter. So all your friends can read it.”

“What should I post?”

“Say ‘I am at peace now. You can be, too. Go to zeetheend.com.’”

She does it, but at an oozingly slow speed. When they’re in this state, it’s like they’re underwater. Brady reminds himself of how well this is going and tries not to become impatient. When she’s done and the messages are sent—more matches flicked into dry tinder—he suggests that she go to the window. “I think you could use some fresh air. It might clear your head.”

“I could use some fresh air,” she says, throwing back the duvet and swinging her bare feet out of bed.

“Don’t forget your Zappit,” he says.

She takes it and walks to the window.

“Before you open the window, go to the main screen, where the icons are. Can you do that, Ellen?”

“Yes . . .” A long pause. The bitch is slower than cold molasses. “Okay, I see the icons.”

“Great. Now go to WipeWords. It’s the blackboard-and-eraser icon.”

“I see it.”

“Tap it twice, Ellen.”

She does so, and the Zappit gives an acknowledging blue flash. If anyone tries to use this particular game console again, it will give a final blue flash and drop dead.

“Now you can open the window.”

Cold air rushes in, blowing her hair back. She wavers, seems on the edge of waking, and for a moment Brady feels her slipping away. Control is still hard to maintain at a distance, even when they’re in a hypnotic state, but he’s sure he’ll hone his technique to a nice sharp point. Practice makes perfect.