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“This is a terrible idea,” Peter said as Lily wrapped the bandage around his head, “We’ll never get away with it.”

“Silence!” she commanded, tucking the stray end into the wrapping.

“I don’t know, I mean… Darling, don’t you think that this is just a little bit over the top?”

“No,” she said, tugging here and there to test the security of the gauze.

“Well, if nothing else,” Peter sighed, “I must admit, this is a terrible use of bandage.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, quite simply… you’ve gone and wrapped the whole roll around my head.”

“But you’re hurt,” Lily perplexed.

“Yes, dear, but only for pretend,”  Peter rubbed the spot on top of his nose bedecked with heavy-rimmed glasses, “Don’t you think you could have–”

“Shh!”  she insisted, “Now go and lie down, I’ll take your temperature.”

Peter did as he was told, stretching out on the extravagant twin mattress.  Lily administered the – thankfully unused – end of a cherry popsicle stick with which she ascertained his terrible state of affairs.

“Oh boy,” she said.

“What is it?”

“You’ve got a fever.”

“Is it serious, doctor?”  Peter asked, adjusting the wealth of bandage to take the pressure off his temples.

“You’re a gonner,” Lily said with as much seriousness as a five year old could manage.

“I had a feeling this was coming.”

“We’ll have to operate.”

Lily dug through her toy chest to retrieve the proper implements.  She returned to the bedside with Tinker-Toy and Barbie Doll posing as saw and scalpel.

“Are you ready?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” Peter said, taking a serious gaze at the ceiling.

“Hello!” a white head of hair stuck itself inside the door, “Lunch is ready in five minutes.”

“Ok Grandma,” Lily replied, preparing her instruments, “Right after we operate.”

“Goodness, is it serious?”

“It is.”

“I’m a gonner, Vivian,” Peter raised his head from the pillow with a grin.  Her sixty-five year smile echoed back.

“Well, I believe you’re in very capable hands,” she laughed, “Lily, just make sure Grandpa survives in time for his grilled cheese sandwich.”

“Ok,” she said to the shutting, giggling door, “We don’t have any an-a-ma-thee-si-a, so you’re just gonna have to grit your teeth, ok?”

“Do what you must,” Peter swallowed his laugh and returned his eyes to the grotesquely stuccoed ceiling.  Where did she get this?

“But don’t worry,” she said as she raised her toys, “I’ve done this many times before.”

“God bless you, doctor.”

And from far beyond, the smell of lunch wafted in over the tickles of the operating theater, where miracles were performed… just in time to eat.

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