Page 3 of Christmas at Watson Memorial

Chapter 2

Selene

The December air slices through my helicopter like a frozen blade as I approach Watson Memorial Hospital. Manhattan's skyline glitters against the steel-gray sky, a perfect backdrop for what should be just another Tuesday transport. But the donor kidney nestled in its isothermal container feels more like the beginning of a fairy tale – a second chance at life for a child who desperately needs one.

I touch down on the helipad with practiced precision and kill the engines. The transplant coordinators rush toward me, their white coats flapping in the rotor wash. Every second matters in this race against time.

A quick glance at my watch brings a smile to my face. With over two hours until my next pickup, I can spend some time with the kids, helping them forget – even briefly – about the sterile walls that contain their world.

There's one particular seven-year-old who's probably pressed against her window right now, searching the skyfor my helicopter. Holly Thompson's room has become my favorite stop at Watson Memorial. I promised her that once she gets better, I'd take her flying over Manhattan. God, I hope I get to keep that promise.

“Did you fight any dragons today?” she squeals as I enter her room. She's perched on her bed, the toy helicopter I gave her two weeks ago clutched in her tiny hands. Her skin looks paler than usual, almost translucent under the harsh hospital lighting.

“No dragons in Manhattan today, but you won't believe what I saw – a flock of giant pigeons over Central Park,” I say, settling beside her.

“Giant pigeons?”

“Huge ones,” I gesture wildly, watching her eyes grow wide.

“Maybe they ate something radioactive,” Holly suggests, her imagination sparking.

I smile, catching Dr. Alexia Winters from the corner of my eye. She's standing by the door, pretending to review a chart, but I know she's listening. As always, her lab coat is pristine, her dark hair pulled back in a severe ponytail that somehow makes her look both intimidating and irresistible.

I embellish the story, each detail more outrageous than the last, earning delighted giggles from Holly.

“I had to dodge them because I was carrying something super important to the hospital. Then their leader – hehad this mohawk, you see – started throwing sticks at my windshield and—”

“What did you do?” Holly interrupts, completely enthralled.

“I remembered an old pilot's trick. See, pigeons – even giant ones – can't resist donuts. Lucky for me, I had some left over from breakfast. Tossed them right out, and those birds dove after them like rockets.”

“Good thing you had extras!” Holly sighs dramatically, pressing her hands to her chest.

Dr. Winters makes a sound that could be either derision or amusement. Her face remains unreadable, but something in her eyes softens.

“Will you teach me to fly? When I'm better?” Holly asks eagerly.

“You know I pinky-promised, and I never break those,” I say, linking my little finger with hers. “Those are sacred.”

“Tell me about when you were in the army! About rescuing people in the mountains!”

“Want to know something? The bravest people I met weren't the soldiers – they were kids in the war zone hospitals. Just like you, miss. You're one of the bravest people I've ever known,” I tell her with a wink.

Holly's face lights up, and I swear I catch the ghost of a smile on Dr. Winters' lips. That's about as rare as a unicorn sighting.

“I wish I could have a Christmas tree in here,” Holly sighs, trailing her fingers along the wall. “Mom says we can't 'cause of germs or something.”

“Bet we can figure something out to decorate. I'll talk to Dr. Kumari. We'll come up with something awesome!”

“Have you seen the Christmas elves? Arya says they do magic all over the hospital on Christmas Day.”

“Of course they do! The most powerful magic there is,” I assert, though I have no clue what she's talking about.

Dr. Winters clears her throat, signaling it's time for Holly to rest. She mentions that Holly's been moved up on the transplant list, surgery expected within days.

When she approaches Holly, I witness something remarkable – a crack in her icy facade. It's subtle, like watching frost melt in reverse, revealing warmth that might have been there all along. She lets Holly play with her stethoscope, explaining it's like a telephone for listening to heart secrets, and I find myself mesmerized by their interaction.

I bite my lower lip, thoughts drifting to my sister Emily and all the doctors who treated her long illness. Some were good but distant, others kind but ineffective. Dr. Winters is neither – she's something else entirely, like a crystal-clear river flowing beneath a glacier. They call her the Ice Queen, among other less flattering names, but maybe they're reading the story wrong. Sometimes ice castles are built to protect something precious.