“She might see me first.”
We stood there wasting more time over a difference adults considered small.
Ellie called the security desk.
Her voice reached the lobby speaker.
“Please let my fairy upstairs. He’s bad at being late.”
Laughter moved through the crowd.
Not cruel laughter.
The kind that releases pressure.
I turned sideways inside the elevator. One wing folded against the wall. The other struck every floor button between one and four.
When the doors opened, Ellie waited in her wheelchair.
She looked at me slowly from glittering boots to crooked crown.
“You forgot lip gloss.”
“I didn’t forget.”
“Then where is it?”
“In the trash.”
Ellie held up a pink tube.
A nurse had helped.
I surrendered.
She painted one side of my mouth and declared the fairy acceptable.
Then she handed me the blue paper.
Wish one.
Chocolate-chip pancakes at midnight, served on real plates, with everyone wearing crowns.
Hospital dietary rules, medication schedules, and common sense stood against us.
Ellie raised one eyebrow.
“Fairies say yes first.”
I unfolded my wings.
“Yes.”
The pancakes required negotiation.
Ellie could not leave the oncology floor. Outside food needed approval. Her treatment schedule made midnight inconvenient, and the hospital kitchen did not operate like a diner.
Nurse Diane found a solution.
A hospital dietitian approved a small portion. The kitchen prepared batter earlier and stored it. At 11:56 p.m., a night nurse cooked three uneven pancakes on an electric griddle inside the family lounge.
We used real ceramic plates from the staff room.
Lena wore a paper crown.
Diane wore one over her surgical cap.
I remained in the fairy costume.
Ellie ate three bites.
That was all her body allowed.
She leaned back against the pillow and declared wish one completed.
The yellow paper held wish two:
I want stars below my window because I’m tired of looking up.
Riverbend’s fourth-floor oncology rooms faced an enclosed courtyard. Ellie had spent months looking through that glass at concrete, service doors, and a narrow strip of sky.
I called the club.
Twenty-four bikers answered.
We purchased battery-powered lights, cut hundreds of stars from white and silver paper, and requested access to the courtyard. The hospital approved six participants.
Twenty-four arrived.
Security nearly canceled the entire plan.