Page 49 of Healed By the Grumpy Elf

The boy clamps his mouth shut and shakes his head vehemently.

Another child in line whispers loudly to his father, "I don't want troll farts, Daddy!"

The situation deteriorates rapidly. One mother steps out of line entirely, pulling her daughter away.

“We can’t make them drink something so foul,” another parent calls out. “They're just kids!”

I feel myself sinking into familiar territory, respected for my medical knowledge, but failing utterly at the human element. Just as the weight of potential failure settles on my shoulders, Maeve gasps dramatically beside me.

"Oh my goodness!" she exclaims, her voice carrying across the gymnasium. "I almost forgot to tell everyone about the contest!"

The children nearest us fall silent, their attention captured by her theatrical delivery. Even the boy who first refused the tonic looks up curiously.

"What contest?" he asks suspiciously. “Is there a prize?”

Maeve kneels down to his level, her eyes wide with excitement. "Well, you see, this isn't just any medicine. This is a magical potion that brave adventurers must drink to protect their village from the dreaded Pixie-Pox monster!"

I stare at her in confusion, but she continues without missing a beat.

"The potion is supposed to taste terrible," she explains in a stage whisper. "That's how you know it's working its magic. Only the bravest heroes can drink it all down!"

From beneath the table, she produces a box I hadn't noticed before. Opening it with a flourish, she reveals sheets of colorful stickers and a large poster board.

"This is the Bravery Wall," she announces. "Every brave hero who drinks the potion gets to put their name on the wall and receives the official Hero's Badge of Courage."

The children nearest us lean forward with interest. Maeve catches my eye briefly, a spark of mischief in her expression, before turning back to the boy in the superhero shirt.

"I bet a superhero like you could handle it," she challenges gently. "What do you think? Want to be the first name on our Bravery Wall?"

The boy hesitates, looking from Maeve to me to the dark liquid in the cup.

"I'll show you how brave heroes do it," Maeve says. She picks up a vial, measures a dose into a cup, and raises it high. "To victory against the Pixie-Pox monsters!"

With a dramatic gesture, she swallows the liquid, her face contorting into exaggerated grimaces that make the children giggle. Immediatelyafterward, she pops something into her mouth from her pocket, then produces a candy wrapper as evidence.

"Magic flavor eraser," she explains with a wink. "Only for the bravest heroes!"

I realize she's eaten a piece of candy to mask the bitter aftertaste. She then produces a large bowl of candies and places it on the table, right beside the poster board.

The boy in the superhero shirt squares his small shoulders. "I want to be on the Bravery Wall," he declares.

"Excellent choice, brave sir," Maeve says solemnly, handing him the cup I prepared earlier. "Drink it all down in one gulp, like ripping off a bandage."

To my amazement, the child does exactly that. His face puckers at the taste, but he swallows it all, then pumps his fist in the air. "I did it!"

"Our first hero!" Maeve cheers, presenting him with a glittering star sticker along with a piece of wrapped candy, which the boy pops into his mouth after glancing at his mother. Then Maeve helps put his name on the poster board. "Who will be next?"

The transformation in the gymnasium is remarkable. Children who moments ago were balking at the medicine now jostle to be next, eager to earn their place on the Bravery Wall. Parents visibly relax, their earlier concerns melting away in the face of their children's enthusiasm.

I find myself adapting to Maeve's approach, surprising myself by telling a nervous little girl, "This potion is particularly powerful against monsters hiding under beds."

The smile Maeve gives me warms me from the inside out, like sunlight filling a room that's been dark too long.

By midday, we've administered the tonic to every child in the school. The Bravery Wall is filled with names, some written by us, others in wobbly children's handwriting. As the last class files out of the gymnasium, Maeve and I begin packing up the remaining supplies.

"That was impressive," I tell her as we walk through the now-empty hallways toward her office. "Without your intervention, the distribution would have been a complete failure."

"I told you the taste would be a problem," she reminds me with a playful nudge of her elbow against mine. "Children aren't little adults. They need a different approach."