Tom raised his eyebrows and stifled a laugh. I closed my eyes. Please just go, I wanted to tell them. Five minutes ago I was helping my daughter into her prom dress, I’d been busting my ass for days to make this a special night for her, and this was the last goddamn thing I needed.

Listen, I said, eyes still closed, I can only speak to my experience.

And have you experienced this transcendence? Seema asked, with compassion. I opened my eyes and looked at her.

Not yet fully, no.

Do you believe you will?

I don’t know, I said. I hope so.

She said she sensed a skeptic in me.

Well that’s my nature. I question.

And have you questioned this?

Of course I have; I resent your implication.

I’m not implying anything, I’m just—

I’m not a gullible person, Seema.

I never said you were.

And I can tell you that things have begun to make a lot more sense to me.

Since Howard?

Since—since having this information to draw on, I said. The air does feel like it’s vibrating. The humming is louder at night. And it seems to be coming from everywhere, and yet nowhere.

And so then you start trawling the Internet for blogs, Tom said, with cool detachment, that parrot this theory back to you until you’re in this little echo chamber of people who don’t know a damn thing about science because we’re barely taught the basics in school by nutjobs like you.

Seema told him to stop. He took a sip of whisky. I noticed movement out of the corner of my eye, looked over, and realized Ashley was now sitting halfway up the staircase, watching. Good, I thought, I wanted her to hear what I was about to say. I turned back to Tom.

Tom, the Earth is making us aware of itself in the most extraordinary way. And you can choose to listen or can choose not to. But I am listening. Because I have been given the gift of being able to. And so have you.

I looked at Seema. And so have you, I said. So why say no? Why not commune with the Earth on a more sensitive and fundamental level than most people could ever imagine?

Tom looked down at his mailbox, and then back up at me—With all due respect I think you’re a lunatic.

I nodded—Lunatic. Madwoman. Witch. Yeah. I know the story, Tom. Those who see differently—

Oh yeah, you’re a martyr, he said, rising from his seat. A real Joan of Arc.

He picked up his mailbox and made for the door.

And what about Emily? I asked.

What about her?

She believes it too.

We don’t talk about it.

Well let me tell you, she believes.

Tom flashed me a pained smile—I know.