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There's a sudden conjurer's movement from the Ringmaster as the hat rests on Zoe's head for the first time. But instead of snatching the hat, the Ringmaster kneads his arms urgently -- like a crazed conductor giving a downbeat.

And so he is. Violins instantly grow louder, cymbals crash, kettledrums pound gravely, and a full chorus wafts into the soundscape as Zoe resumes singing. Most astoundingly, Zoe's parents rise straight up into the air. Still in their chairs. Still motionless and oblivious. Dad, his shoes left down below, still reads his newspaper. Mom's radio remains in her lap -- and she's still staring expressionlessly. A whole battalion of people marches in slowly from all directions, mysteriously hooded in white suits like clean-up workers at the site of a nuclear disaster. A hatch lifts up in the floor, tumbling the Ringmaster backwards, and a clown-like man peeps out and hands Zoe a pink balloon.

The Ringmaster returns, stomping down on the trapdoor and following Zoe to the front of the stage. Light shines from beneath Dad's abandoned shoes. Music is hushed as gingerly, the Ringmaster steps into Dad's shoes. Tempo quickens...grows raucous...spontaneous...festive.

Our journey of the imagination has begun.*