Cooper McCoy pulled the cord. The pale pink drapes glided apart and gathered at the window's edges. Light flooded the living room. The young boy stared out the window for several slow seconds, regarding the freshly-cut lawn, the ancient oak tree, the house across the street and Mr. McCoy's Rambler each in turn, with the same Olympian indifference. He pulled the second cord and the drapes slid shut. The room was dark.

    Again, Cooper pulled the cord. The drapes parted. Light poured in. Dust danced in the air. Again, he pulled the other cord and they shut. Darkness.

    For the third time, Cooper pulled the cord. Yet again, the drapes parted and the room became bright.

    "Cooper, I would appreciate it if you gave the drapes a rest," remarked Mr. McCoy from the sofa. "I'm trying to read the paper."

    Cooper pulled the second cord. They slid shut.

    "I'm serious, son. Right now I'm frowning so hard the edges of my mouth might fall off my face. My systolic blood pressure is fully seven points above normal. If you don't stop this instant I will become a very mad dad."

    Cooper pulled the cord. The drapes slid open.

    "That is it! I'm calling your mother." Mr. McCoy dialed Mrs. McCoy's number on his cell phone and waited for her to answer.

    "Hello?" asked Mrs. McCoy. Mr. McCoy hated her way of making "Hello" sound like a question.

    "Yes. Hello. This is your husband. Do you know what your son is doing?" He tended, when angry, to eschew proper names.

    "No."

    "I'll tell you what: drawing the drapes. Repeatedly. Incessantly and insufferably. I think he's developed a fixation."

    "Of course he has," Mrs. McCoy said. "Haven't you heard?"

    "Heard what?"

    "Children everywhere are mad about drawing our drapes. It's the new fashion."

    "That's absurd. I’d venture a guess that ninety-nine percent of children haven't heard of us or our drapes."

    "The going theory is that our drapes appeared to them in a shared dream, demanding to be drawn."

      Mr. McCoy turned to his son. "Is it true? Did you dream of our drapes?"

      Cooper didn’t respond.

    "Wife," Mr. McCoy said. She’d hung up. Defeated, Mr. McCoy set his phone aside and stared at the window as his son drew the drapes.

    Outside, a crowd had begun to gather. Or what would soon be a crowd. For now, it was just six, no, seven children of varied ages, complexions and dress styles. One had a terrier on a leash, another a marmoset on her shoulder. None so far had mustered the courage to ring the doorbell.

   It occurred to Mr. McCoy that the papers would soon be calling for his thoughts on the phenomenon. To condemn it outright would peg him as a crank. Something philosophical, then. He settled on, “These drapes certainly draw children. Perhaps it’s poetically just that they draw the drapes in turn.”