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it not, as it were, atrophied my tear ducts, I think I would have wept right them. Instead I did something almost as unorthodox. "Dr. Prendergorst," I began, my hands trembling in my lap like two chilly tarantulas, "I realize that, from your perspective, our son's chances are nil."
    "Quite so."
    I deposited the computer printout on Prendergorst's desk. "Look here, over twenty articles from The Holistic Health Bulletin , plus the entire Proceedings of the Eighth Annual Conference on Psychoneuroimmunology and The Collected Minutes of the Fifth International Mind-Body Symposium . Story after story of people thinking their way past cancer, talking themselves out of heart disease — you name it. Surely you've heard of such cases."
    "Indeed," said Prendergorst icily.
    "Jack ... please ," groaned Helen, wincing with embarrassment. My wife, the Sweet Reason reporter.
    "Miracles happen," I persisted. "Not commonly, not reliably, but they happen."
    "Miracles happened ," said Prendergorst, casting a cold eye on the printout.
    "These incidents all come from the Nightmare Era — they're all from the Age of Lies. We're adults now."
    "It's basically a matter of giving the patient a positive outlook," I explained.
    " Please ," hissed Helen.
    "I believe it's time we returned to the real world, Mr. Sperry." Prendergorst shoved the printout away as if it were exuding a foul odor. "Your wife obviously agrees with me."
    "Maybe we should bring Toby home next week," Helen suggested, fanning herself with the Xavier's pamphlet. "The sooner he knows," she sighed, "the better." Prendergorst slid a pack of Canceroulette cigarettes from the breast pocket of his lab coat. "When's your son scheduled to leave?"
    "On the twenty-seventh," said Helen.
    "The symptoms won't start before then. I'd keep him where he is. Why spoil his summer?"
    "But he'll be living a lie. He'll go around thinking he's not dying."
    "We all go around thinking we're not dying," said the doctor with a quick little smile. He removed a cigarette, set the pack on the edge of the desk. WARNING:
THE SURGEON GENERAL'S CRUSADE AGAINST THIS PRODUCT MAY BE
    DISTRACTING YOU FROM THE MYRIAD WAYS IN WHICH YOUR
    GOVERNMENT FAILS TO PROTECT YOUR HEALTH. "God, what a depraved species we are. I'm telling you Toby is mortally ill, and all the while I'm thinking,
    'Hey, my life is really pretty good, isn't it? No son of mine is dying. Fact is, I take a certain pleasure in these people's suffering.'"
    "And when the symptoms do start?" Helen folded the pamphlet into queer, tortured, origami shapes. "What then?"
    "Nothing dramatic at first. Headaches, leg cramps, some hair loss. His skin may acquire a bluish tint."
    Helen said, "And then?"
    "His lymph nodes will become painful and swollen. His lungs will probably fill with Pneumocystis carinii . His temperature—"
    "Don't go on," I said.
    The doctor ignited his cigarette. "Each case is different. Some Xaviers linger for a year, some go in less than a month. In the meantime, we do everything we can, which isn't much. Demerol, IV nourishment, antibiotics for the secondary infections."
    "We've heard enough," I said.
    "The worse of it is probably the chills." Prendergorst took a drag on his cigarette. "Xaviers, they just can't seem to get warm. We wrap them in electric blankets, and it doesn't make any—"
    "Please stop," I pleaded.
    "I'm merely telling the truth," said the doctor, exhaling a jagged smoke ring.
    * * *
    All the way home, Helen and I said nothing to each other. Nothing about Toby, nothing about Xavier's, nothing about miracles — nothing.
    Weirdly, cruelly, my thoughts centered on rabbits. How I would no longer be able to abide their presence in my life. How I would tremble with rage whenever my career required me to criticize a copy of Peter Rabbit or an Easter card bearing some grinning bunny. I might even start seeking the animals out, leaving a trail of mysterious, mutilated corpses in my wake, whiskers plucked, ears torn off, tails