“So what’s up?” Roscoe asked.

“I have something to tell you.”

“What is it?”

“It’s hard to explain and even harder to believe.”

“Try me.”

I took a breath and considered what I would say. I’d thought about trying to pry my life’s history out of him without telling him what was really going on, but Roscoe was my best friend, and we still had a pledge of never lying to each other. On the other hand, I wasn’t sure if a doctor would take a leap of faith about unseen worlds as readily as a priest. Somehow, I had to prove that what was happening to me was real.

“Where should I be right now?” I asked him.

“What do you mean?”

“If I wasn’t here in the clinic with you, where would you expect to find me?”

“I don’t know. At your office, I guess.”

I leaned across his desk, picked up the phone, and handed it to him. “Call me.”

“What?”

“Call my office. Ask to talk to me.”

“Why?”

“Please, Roscoe. Just do it.”

With a look of confusion, he punched a button for the speakerphone and then pressed a speed dial number. The phone buzzed on the other end, and after several rings, a young woman answered.

“Chicago Housing Solutions.”

“Dana, it’s Roscoe Tate,” he said, his foghorn voice as deep as ever.

“Oh, hey, Dr. Tate. Are you looking for Dylan?”

“I am. Do you know where he is?”

“Sure, he’s on the other line. Do you want me to tell him you’re holding?”

Roscoe didn’t say anything for a long time. He stared across the desk at me, and his brow furrowed, like a mathematician confronting an insoluble problem. He stayed silent for so long that the woman on the phone finally broke in again.

“Dr. Tate? Are you still there? Do you want me to get Dylan for you?”

His eyes never left me. “Dana, are you saying that Dylan’s in the office with you? Are you sure about that?”

“I’m looking right at him,” she replied. “Actually, he just finished up his call. You want me to put him on?”

“Yes, please.”

A few seconds passed. Then we both heard my own voice on the other end of the phone. There was no mistaking it.

“Roscoe. Hey, buddy.”

“Dylan,” Roscoe murmured. He opened his mouth to talk, but seemed unable to decide what to say next.

“What’s up, Doc? You need something?”

Roscoe propped his arms on the desk and then balanced his chin on his hands. Our faces were barely a foot apart. He didn’t have the look of a man who thought he was in the midst of a prank or an April Fool’s joke. His eyes were serious, the same as mine. He spoke into the speakerphone, but he stared at me as he did.