Last Saturday, my best friend called and I let it go to voice mail. “Sorry,” I texted. “Rescuing a lady in Caracas.” Then I went back to Googling how to escape police handcuffs.

The closure of theaters, into June at least, has meant a surge in the availability of filmed performances and live readings. I have moused and clicked through a few, mostly ones I could watch without covering the screen whenever the children walked by. In all but the best filmed theater, a sense of something missing — evanescence, a snack bar — persists. And these days, with my focus as finely honed as the blob of Play-Doh stuck to our carpet, I look at the screen, I look away. Someone demands milk with a curly straw or needs place value explained. I give up.

But two weeks ago, I received an email from Candle House Collective, a theater company specializing in remote immersive experiences. I have always liked immersive theater — a form of performance, usually but not always site-specific, in which audiences participate, to lesser and greater degrees. This is probably because I’m the kind of person always waving her hand when a magician asks for a volunteer. And because when I participate actively, my mind seldom drifts toward unfolded laundry and pandemics.

So I wrote to Candle House and requested the deluxe Leap of Faith package. After the company sent an email clarifying that the encounters “feature intense/disturbing content,” I tried, not quite hard enough, to downgrade. By scrolling through my inbox and a guide to remote and online experiences, aggregated by the site No Proscenium, I discovered other companies offering milder encounters. I booked five. At best, this would mean an all-inclusive vacation for my neocortex. At worst, a break from what I like to call Mommy’s Disaster Montessori, accreditation pending.