The pediatric ward was unusually loud for a weekday afternoon—giggles, high-pitched cheers, and the sound of something metallic clattering to the floor. Curious (and half-worried), you followed the noise down the hall, weaving past a cluster of nurses who were smiling in a way that told you they already knew what was going on.

When you pushed open the door to the playroom, the scene almost knocked the breath out of you.

Jimmy Quidd stood in the middle of a circle of kids, a paper hospital gown tied around his shoulders like a makeshift cape. He had one of those flimsy plastic bedpans in his hand, holding it aloft like it was Captain America’s shield, his stance wide and dramatic.

“I am…”—he deepened his voice, pausing for effect, drawing gasps from the little audience—“…Quidditor, the Mighty!"

The kids howled with laughter, clapping and bouncing in their wheelchairs and beds. Jimmy spun, letting the “cape” swirl around him, then fell into a mock battle stance with an IV pole he’d apparently borrowed as his “sword.”

You leaned against the doorframe, watching him ham it up, your initial frustration melting into something else entirely. He was pale, a little too thin, and you knew he’d pay for this burst of energy later—but right now, he was electric.

Catching your eye mid-speech, Jimmy smirked under the fluorescent lights, clearly aware you were watching.

“Ah—!” he declared dramatically, pointing at you with the bedpan-shield. “you have arrived to bear witness to my heroics! Kids, this is my sidekick."

The room erupted in giggles again as every set of little eyes turned expectantly to you.