Page 23 of Healed By the Grumpy Elf
"Is it dangerous?" a gnome mother calls out, clutching her handbag.
"Pixie-Pox itself is rarely dangerous when properly managed," I explain. "Symptoms include uncontrollable laughter, luminescent freckles, spontaneous floating when experiencing positive emotions, and in pixies, temporary hair color changes."
"How do we treat it?" another parent demands.
"The disease must run its course, typically lasting seven to ten days. There is no specific treatment, though symptoms can be managed with proper care."
The parents exchange worried glances, and the murmur grows louder.
"How contagious is it?" Rylan Primrose asks.
"Extremely. We must assume all children who spent persistent contact with the affected children will also become sick. They will need to be quarantined for approximately two weeks."
"Two weeks?" A troll father's voice booms over the others. "You expect us to keep our children isolated for two weeks?"
"If we want to contain this outbreak, yes," I answer firmly. "The alternative is a community-wide epidemic."
The crowd grows restless, voices rising as parents begin talking over each other.
"My daughter has an important recital next week!"
"What about those of us with multiple children? Do we quarantine the whole family?"
"Can adults catch it, too?"
"I never had Pixie-Pox as a child. Am I at risk?"
I feel control of the situation slipping as the questions come faster than I can address them. This is not going the way I want it to go.
"Adults who never contracted Pixie-Pox in childhood can indeed become infected," I explain over the rising voices. "In adults, symptoms often include persistent hiccups that cause temporary levitation, painfully itchy glowing rashes, and fits of inappropriate laughter that can last hours. The condition is significantly more uncomfortable for adults than for children."
This information only increases the parents' anxiety. Just as I'm about to snap at the crowd to be silent, Maeve steps forward.
"Everyone, please." Her voice, though not particularly loud, somehow cuts through the chaos. "I understand you're worried. I would be too. But please listen carefully, because what we do next matters."
The crowd quiets, all eyes turning to her.
"Pixie-Pox isn't dangerous, but it is disruptive," she continues. "Your children will be uncomfortable, giggly, and yes, occasionally floating around your living rooms. They'll need your patience and care."
She smiles, and somehow the tension in the room eases slightly.
"We're preparing detailed care packets for each of you, with information on managing symptoms and keeping your children comfortable. Yes, quarantine is necessary, but we'll help you through it."
A werewolf mother raises her hand. "My son has never been still for more than five minutes. How am I supposed to keep him isolated for two weeks?"
Maeve nods understandingly. "For active children, try creating a 'Pox Den' with pillows, books, and quiet activities. The laughing fits are exhausting, so they'll need more rest than usual. And remember, they'll be feeling very emotional. Extra hugs are good medicine."
The mother looks relieved, and other parents begin to nod. More questions come and Maeve handles them beautifully and honestly.
I watch in reluctant amazement as Maeve transforms the angry crowd into a cooperative community.
"Dr. Reizenhart and I will be working in concert throughout this situation," she finally states. "Between his medical expertise and my experience with the children, we'll get through this together."
She glances at me, and I find myself nodding in agreement, though we've made no such arrangement.
One by one, parents collect their glowing, giggling children along with Maeve's promise of care instructions. The atmosphere has shifted from panic to determined cooperation.
As the crowd thins, I notice an elderly pixie woman lingering near the back. Her silvery hair is arranged in an elegant chignon, and her violet eyes, identical to Millie's and Rylan's, study Maeve and me with calculating interest. I recognize her from Knitting Club.