On cue, James, the security team and I opened five large boxes of cookies still warm from the palace kitchen. I’ve never felt more popular, like a vivacious spokesmodel handing out prize money on a game show.

“These really are good,” said Charles, splitting a cookie with Ian.

“These are for the children,” I scolded, splitting a cookie with Lucky.

“Just this once,” Dr. Vatshul warned the kids, most of whom started hoarding, and I didn’t blame them.

“These are prescription,” Edgar protested.

“And now,” asked Dr. Vatshul, “would we like His Highness to tell us a story?”

“Something about cookies and starships and magic?” Edgar suggested.

“Who’s that?” said a little girl in a wheelchair, with three limbs in fiberglass casts, using an unfettered arm to point to me. “Who’s the cookie man?”

“That is my friend Carter Ogden,” said Edgar, “who’s one of our helpers today. He’s come all the way from America.”

Some of the kids were impressed by this; others not a bit.

“Is he your boyfriend?” asked the little girl.

“Is he your kissy friend?” asked an even younger child, with a dinosaur sticker on her cheek.

“Your Highness . . .” Dr. Vatshul began.

“He’s my very good friend, and he plans all sorts of parties and events, so he’s especially happy to be here amidst all of these balloons.”

I nodded vigorously, gung ho but mute.

“Can he tell us a story?” demanded a boy whose head was bandaged and immobilized by a halo of screws and steel rods.

As Dr. Vatshul looked uncertain and Edgar looked at me, the children chanted, “CARTER! CARTER! CARTER!”

“Let’s ask him,” said Edgar. “Carter, how about a story?”

I was stricken—I didn’t want to hog the spotlight, but I couldn’t be rude either, especially not to a roomful of hospitalized kids, one of whom shouted, “We want the boyfriend! Make him talk!”

I was remembering a period of over a year when Abby, at fourteen, had been diagnosed with leukemia and received a bone marrow transplant from a donor matched through an online service. She’d been bedridden and dragged from one specialist to the next as my terrified parents had struggled to keep her spirits up. I was twelve; I’d been scared and weirdly fascinated by Abby’s gaunt appearance, the pain she was in and the fact that she might die. Asking about any of this was off-limits.