He liked periwinkle, but still he refused to take the pills. When the Visitors came, he said, there’d be no need for medicine.

At her wit’s end, she called the specialist and asked what could be done if her son refused to take his medication.

“Admit him to the hospital,” the voice on the other end of the line said.

The advice made sense, but she knew, somehow, that if she followed it, he would never come out again.

She hung up the bedroom phone and walked back into the living room. “Frankie …” she said.

“Ape marathon!” Frankie exclaimed, pointing to the television. “They’re showing Battle for the Planet of the Apes! Will you watch it with me?”

Exhausted, she nodded and sat down next to him on the sofa.

Not long into the movie (the apes had yet to begin their battle), her eyes started tearing up. She rubbed at them. “You can take a nap, if you want,” Frankie told her. “I’ll catch you up on what happens.”

She sank a little lower on the sofa, and finally stretched out with her head in his lap, and fell asleep. When she woke up, he’d placed one of the sofa pillows beneath her head. He told her about the battle she’d missed, and said they were almost to the crying-statue scene. “It hurts your brain when you think about it. The first nuclear bomb left the apes in charge, but they didn’t detonate it; we did. And we blew up the world the second time, too.” He was rocking forward and back gently, as if floating on a raft. “They’re all the descendents of one talking baby monkey. They all come from the same ancestor. He’s the one who … Look!” He pointed to the television. It showed a close-up of an ape statue, a tear running down its face. “He’s crying for the whole world,” Frankie said. “He’s crying for everyone.”

“Frankie,” she said, sitting up, dragging the heel of one hand across her eyes. “I want you to listen to me.”

He waited until the credits appeared, then clicked off the television with the remote, and looked at her.

“The Visitors aren’t coming.”

“Yes they are.”

She took a deep breath. “Okay. They’re coming. But we have no idea when, and if you don’t take your medication in the meantime, you’re going to die.”

“They told me that might happen.”

“Well, you know what? I’m telling you it’s not going to happen. Because you’re going to start taking your pills. Today, no arguments. And I’ll make a deal with you,” she said, because he was just beginning to shake his head no. “The minute the Visitors arrive, you can stop. I promise: not one more pill after they get here. But until then, we’re going to do this my way.”