I know, I know but it is, Mom, it just fucking is. Like that medieval dancing plague or something.

Howard has spent his career devoted to this.

So? Mom, a priest spends his entire career devoted to God, that doesn’t mean I have to give a shit about what he has to say about it.

But this is something that exists, okay, this is science.

To Howard Bard it exists, Mom, not to the rest of the world.

He’s an internationally respected academic.

Oh please.

He has more degrees than a thermometer!

Yeah so did, like, Robert Mugabe.

I started to laugh, and Ashley smiled, in spite of herself—It’s true. I wrote an essay on him.

Howard’s not a tinpot dictator.

No he’s just a—tinfoil-hat dictator.

He was dean of geosciences at Virginia Tech for eighteen years.

Yeah, before he was fired, she said, widening her eyes.

I told her the administration was completely threatened by him.

Do you know how hard it is for an old white man to be kicked out of a tenured teaching job? she asked. He was dean for Christ sake, he’d practically have to murder someone to lose his job.

He was a renegade who totally revolutionized the department.

She buried her face in her hands for a moment, and then looked up at me—You’re not on stable ground, Mom, and honestly? It’s scary. Because people, when you’re in this state, they’ll take advantage of you.

No one’s taking advantage of me.

You are not yourself, and you’re not in a strong place.

Yes I am and don’t—You think I’m a weak person? A weak person, Ash, would have just ignored it and wished all of this away. A weak person would be still at school teaching and coming home, and just, just carrying on like everything was hunky dory.

I pointed to my chest—I am battling. I am going to battle every single hour of the day.

I’m not saying you’re a weak person, I’m saying you’re—

And I can’t do this alone, okay? I need you on my side. You can’t let your dad turn you against me.

Whoa whoa, she said, holding up her hands, as if I just drew a gun.

I know he’s trying to.

Don’t start—

He’s telling you I’m bipolar, isn’t he?

She looked away, down the staircase—Who else is he going to talk to?

Has he been telling you that?

Our conversations are private.

He shouldn’t be off-loading that on you, I said, shaking my head.

Who else has he got?

I need you with me on this.

On what? she asked, turning back to me, indignant. On Howard? On The Hum? No, I’m sorry. I love you, but I’m fucking scared for you.

Scared of what?