A woman—a grown, adult woman—was sitting on the bed with Little Pete’s head in her lap.

“Mom?” Astrid said.

The woman was in her late thirties. She had streaked blond hair and Astrid’s translucent pale skin, somewhat aged by sun. Her eyes were brown. She smiled sadly and cradled Little Pete’s head. She stroked his hair.

“Mom?” Astrid said again, and this time her voice broke.

The woman did not speak. She did not look up at Astrid. She kept all her attention focused on Little Pete.

“She’s not real,” Astrid said, and took a step back.

Lana glared at Astrid. Then she noticed Sam, standing there.

Lana’s eyes narrowed. “You knew about this, didn’t you?” she accused.

“She’s not real,” Astrid said again. “That’s not my mother. That’s . . . it’s an illusion. He’s sick. I was out so . . . so he made her appear. To comfort him.”

“He made her appear.” Lana practically spit the words. “He made her appear. Because that’s something just anyone can do, any of us can just make a three-dimensional real-life mommy appear to cuddle us when we feel bad.”

“Stop it, Petey,” Astrid said.

The woman—the illusion of a woman—did not react but kept stroking Little Pete’s head.

Plague, Chapter 7