The Bursar shook Cerise’s hand with firm confidence. “We don’t expect you to be familiar with procedures,” he said. “Orientation for our new parents is standard. Don’t be embarrassed to ask questions.”

“I suppose when Lorelei is my age the parents will take it for granted.” Cerise smiled in self-deprecation.

The Bursar nodded. “Of course, we expect our system to progress a great deal more by then. Now, your daughter Lorelei — she’s five?”

“Five in June,” Cerise agreed. “A normal, happy little girl, we’d like to think.”

“Our programme will help keep her that way.” The Bursar gestured for Cerise to follow him. The halls were bright and spacious, decorated with printouts of student artwork.

“Lorelei will have her own cubicle, kindergarten through graduation,” said the Bursar, gesturing at one of the dim nooks off the bright hallway. “One advantage of our programme is decreased contagion — although that’s not its main appeal.”

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Cerise peered in at the tiny, still form. She felt like a voyeur into this strange industrial transformation of sleep. She forced a laugh. “A far cry from showing me the gym and the art room, isn’t it?”

The Bursar pursed his lips. “Our students do experience those things. In some ways the virtual environment is superior — you and I didn’t see a new gymnasium remodel more than once, if ever. Lorelei will never experience anything but. No matter how the state of the art changes, our experience changes with it.”

They finished the tour in silence — not much to see except for the nurse’s office, which didn’t look much like the nurses’ offices of Cerise’s childhood except for its antiseptic gleam. Satisfied, the Bursar escorted her back to his office.

“We used to think that children just had to take whatever life threw at them,” he beamed, relaxing into his leather chair and leaving Cerise to perch on a wooden one. “What a terrible idea, raising children on random trauma! Then we reversed course and over-restricted them until their prefrontal cortexes developed.” He shook his head. “Lunacy. Learning requires error.”

“Of course,” said Cerise stiffly, one of that protected cohort herself.

But the Bursar was giving his favourite speech and could not be distracted. “Our calibrated experience will allow Lorelei to only experience the proper amount of error, conflict and pain. We can’t do what some of the upper-end models do, but at your budget … I think you’ll be pleased with her educational experience.”

“What about external … problems? Obviously we try not to have any,” Cerise hurried to explain. “But what if Lorelei has a grandparent with cancer, or something traumatic like that?”

“It’s crucial for you to report to us regularly. Even small trauma — she twists her ankle playing at the park — is used to customize her programme. We’d substitute a nurturing experience in for a challenge there. We’ll assess her reactions constantly, fitting her challenges to her means of addressing them, but our weekly report from parents is crucial. Just think what would happen if we were giving her scenarios like fighting with a friend at recess on top of her parents getting a divorce! Disaster.”

“We’re not getting a divorce,” Cerise blurted defensively, and then made herself add, “I know, you just meant … for example. But to take your example, can she really have fights with friends at recess? Do you connect the children’s simulations to each other?”

“Absolutely not!” snapped the Bursar. “Children are chaotic! You might as well send her to traditional school if that was all you cared for her brain development.”

“But … doesn’t that mean she won’t share childhood memories with anybody?” Cerise thought about the time Lucy Meisner threw up on a field trip to the zoo, the time she and Tony Azar got in trouble for hiding at the end of recess and how it made them laugh decades later.

“Many adults don’t remain close with their classmates from traditional schooling, either,” said the Bursar stiffly. “We feel the trade-off is well worth it.”

“I understand.” Cerise sighed. “So I expect you’ll have the fee structure to go over.”

His face closed disapprovingly. “I will direct you to that department on your way out.”