Slow Breaths and Cold Green Juice
On the morning of the big day, Kenji walked into the hospital between Mom and Dad. Koala rode in his arms, because Kenji had picked Koala himself. The lobby was so wide and shiny that his sneakers squeaked all the way to the desk.
Mom and Dad checked him in while Kenji watched. The nurse smiled and snapped the name bracelet around his wrist. It was loose and light. Kenji turned his arm and looked at his own name, as if he were someone important. He was.
In his little room, a pile of pajamas waited on the bed. There were blue ones and gray ones, and one pair as green as a pond frog. "These," said Kenji, and he pulled them on. Koala got tucked into the crook of his arm.
The nurse sat down so she was the same height as Kenji. "I will tell you the true things," she said. "The sleepy medicine comes through a soft mask. And afterward, your throat will feel sore." Kenji held Koala tighter and nodded. Dad squeezed his shoulder.
The nurse went to get everything ready. Kenji sat very still on the bed with his green pajama knees up and Koala on top of them. His tummy felt like a jar of buzzing bees, but he kept his lips shut tight.
Kenji leaned over and whispered into Koala's ear. "I'm a little scared. But I'm doing it anyway." Koala blinked slowly, the way koalas do when they understand something big.
Koala's fur was soft against his cheek, and it smelled like home. Saying the secret out loud made it smaller, like a pebble in his pocket instead of a boulder on his chest.
The nurse came back and held up the soft mask. "Ready for slow breaths?" Kenji nodded. He breathed in, one, two, three, like smelling a pancake. He breathed out, slow, like cooling a spoonful of soup. Mom held one hand. Koala was tucked under the other.
Another slow breath. Then another. The ceiling lights went soft and blurry, like stars through a foggy window. Kenji's eyes grew heavy, and he drifted off, like a leaf on a quiet pond.
When Kenji woke, the first thing he saw was Mom, right there, smiling. Koala sat beside him on the pillow. His throat felt scratchy, just as the nurse had said. She had told the truth, and somehow that helped.
The nurse brought a cup of green juice, frosty and cold. Kenji took a small sip through the bendy straw. It slid down his sore throat like a cool little river. "Better," he croaked, and Dad laughed with happy relief.
Soon Kenji was home on the couch, wrapped in a blanket with Koala on his lap. He had done a hard thing, and he sat as tall as a five-year-old can sit in a blanket. His name bracelet was still on his wrist.
Kenji slid onto the woolly rug and built a train out of couch cushions, one long car after another. Dad was the passenger. Koala was the conductor and rode in the front car.
"Next stop, the kitchen!" Kenji whispered, because his throat was sore. Dad waved a sock like a ticket. The train rolled on, the whole family aboard, but Koala got off first and promptly took Dad's seat.
Then Koala made a very serious face, sat in the middle of the cushion train, and refused to move for the whole trip. Dad tried to politely ask the conductor to scoot. Kenji whispered, "Koala says that's the fancy seat." Everyone laughed, and Dad had to sit on the floor.
