“And the little girl tried to be brave, but when she went to fly, she couldn’t. So the prince and Spider-Man had to do something. But if they were going to get the little girl to just the right doctors, the help-mobile wasn’t fast enough. So the prince whistled, and do you know what appeared?”

“Iron Man!”

“An Uber!”

“Two trillion billion butterflies!”

“A dragon!”

“A dragon! That’s right! A pink and purple striped dragon with huge wings. And what do you think the dragon’s name was?”

“Dragonmaster!”

“Superdragon!”

“Optimus Prime!”

“Berniece!”

“Yes! The dragon’s name was Berniece! After her mum. And while Berniece looked scary, she was actually really nice and traveled around the world educating people about dragon culture and the inaccuracies in Game of Thrones. And the prince and Spider-Man carried the little girl onto Berniece’s back, with Berniece’s full consent, and they held the little girl so she’d feel safe.

“And the dragon flew thousands of miles to find the very best wing-fixing specialist in the whole world, and do you know who he was? Dr. Vatshul, right here at St. Garvin’s Hospital for Children and Bent Wings! And soon the little girl was feeling better, and she was able to fly all around London, with Berniece beside her. And the little girl thanked the prince and Spider-Man, but they said, ‘We were just helpers. The real heroes are Dr. Vatshul and all of the amazing health care workers here at St. Garvin’s!’”

The kids and parents and staff members clapped and cheered, led by a very pleased Edgar, who put his fingers in his mouth and whistled. Dr. Vatshul was pretending a professional distance, but I could tell he was tickled.

And then the adorable little girl with the fiberglass casts asked, “Did the prince and Spider-Man get married? Like my Uncle Bob and Uncle Baxter?”

This little girl had a tenacious, very specific look on her face that reminded me of Abby in her hospital bed when she’d forced me to choose between a looser bouquet of lilacs and freesia, as opposed to something more formal with roses and lilies in a lace sleeve. She’d explained, “And you have to answer, because the first bouquet’s saying, ‘Hi, I’m a trailing-ribbons-in-my-hair, barefoot, lute-playing New Hampshire meadow bride,’ while the other one says, ‘I’m a traditional Park Avenue bride with an ironclad prenup who means business.’ Pick!”

“I think they should get married!” the little girl proclaimed. “And they should get presents!”

She’d clearly undergone more than one procedure and was signed up for many months of physical therapy. She’d most likely been in some horrific accident and wanted not just my answer, but proof of romance and joy and an exultant ceremony far from the hospital’s sterile sameness.