“Big,” she said, eyes still closed. But dry. I realized that the facial tightness wasn’t a presage to tears, just intense concentration. Her eyes moved frantically beneath their lids.

Chasing images.

She said, “He’s big… with this big hat…”

Sudden stillness beneath the eyelids.

Her hands untangled, floated upward, and made wide circles. “… and a long coat and…”

“And what?”

The hands stopped circling but remained in the air. Her mouth was slightly parted but no sound came out. A slack look came onto her face. Dreamy.

Hypnotic.

Spontaneous hypnotic induction?

Not uncommon in children her age: young kids readily cross the boundary between reality and fantasy; the bright ones are often the best hypnotic subjects. Combine that with the solitary existence Eileen Wagner had described and I could see her visiting the cinema in her head on a regular basis.

Sometimes, though, the feature was a horror flick…

The hands dropped back into her lap, found one another, and began rolling and kneading. The trancelike expression lingered. She remained silent.

I said, “The burglar wears a big hat and a long coat.” Unconsciously, I’d lowered my voice and slowed it. Taking her cue. The dance of therapy.

More tension. No reply.

“Anything else?” I said gently.

She was silent.

I played a hunch. An educated guess born of so many other forty-five-minute hours. “He’s got something else besides a hat and a coat, doesn’t he, Melissa? Something in his hand?”

“Bag.” Barely audible.

I said, “Yes. The burglar carries a bag. For what?”

No reply.

“To put stuff in?”

Her eyes snapped open and her hands clamped down on her knees. She began rocking again, harder and faster, head held stiff, as if her neck were jointless.

I leaned over and touched her shoulder. Bird bones beneath cotton.