I’d felt invisible and guilty because I hadn’t been a possible donor, and I’d searched for a means of helping her feel better that no one else had thought of, and of not just being in the way. I’d decided that what Abby needed was to continue our gown hunt, so I’d canvassed the waiting rooms for bridal magazines and emailed her sketches, along with YouTube videos of the latest wedding ceremony dance routines. My parents had been wary, but their children were headstrong, and during our wedding sessions Abby ignored the IV tubes and the bruises and the nausea from the follow-up chemotherapy, especially when the nurses posted their own wedding albums.

That was when Abby and I had bonded forever, and when her wedding gown had become a symbol of renewed good health and a life with a future. That’s also when I started to intuit the significance of event planning and celebrations; these occasions, and the fuss, sometimes mean much more than someone’s depleted savings account and a rented inflatable bounce house or backyard-size carousel.

Abby had fully recovered, and the ordeal inspired her own career path; she’d experienced firsthand what seriously ill kids go through and was set on helping them. She believes that sick kids are frustrated by lies, pity and gloom: “A sick kid wants to know that their illness isn’t their whole life. A sick kid wants someone who listens, and maybe music and a few troll dolls with hot pink hair they can comb.” Although, being Abby, when her own hair had fallen out, she’d sheared her troll dolls as well, as I scissored off the fingertips of surgical gloves to make doll-size turbans.

Which meant that I wanted to entertain the kids from St. Garvin’s, without coming off like some condescending rainbow jerk.

“I’d be happy to tell a story,” I offered. “If that’s okay with everyone?”

Edgar smiled with a slightly appalled anticipation, and Dr. Vatshul held up his hands in surrender—the children were in charge.

“Okay,” I began, “so, once upon a time—wait, is that too corny?”

The children shook their heads no, that was fine.

“Good, here we go, so once upon a time there was a handsome prince—can anyone point to a handsome prince?”

The kids laughed and pointed to Edgar, who waved his hands no but finally acknowledged the accolade.

“And one morning the prince decided that he needed to help the whole world.”

“Excuse me,” said one of the parents, a mom in a peach-colored sweater set and a bowl haircut. “Is this going to become a political statement in any way? Because that wouldn’t be appropriate.”

“Not at all,” said Edgar, “it’s just going to be a delightful story, isn’t that so, Carter?”