They say laughter is the best medicine.
If that's true, Charlotte and I should be cured by now.

"Eliora, if we die doing this," Charlotte hisses, whisper-laughing so hard her IV tube wiggles, "I'm haunting you first."

"You'd be adorable as a ghost," I whisper back, gripping the edge of her wheelchair like we're Bonnie and Clyde. "Also, we're not dying. We're living creatively."

Our "living creatively" currently involves racing down the Sunshine Wing hallway at approximately one mile per hour — which sounds slow, but is actually incredibly thrilling when you've got heart failure and a nurse who can smell mischief from three rooms away.

Charlotte's curly hair bounces wildly as I push her chair, her laughter echoing against the beige walls. The morning light spills through the big windows, painting us gold. For a moment, the whole hallway feels alive — like it's laughing with us.

Behind us, a voice cries out, "Eliora Mae Brown! You stop that wheelchair right now!"

"Go, go, go!" Charlotte squeals. "Floor it, Eli!"

"On it!" I shout, dodging a laundry cart with the precision of a Formula One driver on three hours of sleep and a failing heart.

Nurse Yara appears at the far end of the hall, her scrubs swishing like battle armor. "You're supposed to be RESTING!" she yells, chasing us with a clipboard and a look that promises a lecture.

"I am resting!" I call back. "Just at high speed!"

Charlotte is howling with laughter now, doubled over, her brown eyes sparkling. Charlotte is doubled over, tears streaming down her cheeks. "You're going to get us arrested by the hospital police!"

"Then at least we'll share a cell," I say, grinning.

"Not if they separate us for bad behavior!" She shoots back.

"Then I'll start a hunger strike until they bring you back!"

"You'd last ten minutes without pudding cups!"

"Rude but accurate!"

We make it to the end of the hall — the one with the big aquarium window where the pediatric patients pass by sometimes to wave. I spin the wheelchair in a slow circle before collapsing onto the nearest bench, clutching my chest but still laughing. Charlotte's still catching her breath, grinning so hard she looks like sunlight in human form.

"I think that's my cardio for the week," I pant.

She nudges me with her foot. "You sound like an eighty-year-old smoker."

"I feel like one," I admit, then laugh again. "Worth it, though."

A minute later, Yara catches up, slightly out of breath, clipboard clutched like a weapon of justice. "I swear," she says, pinching the bridge of her nose, "the two of you are going to give me heart failure."

Charlotte lifts her hand solemnly. "Then we'll all match."

Yara tries to glare, but her mouth twitches. "You're both on bed rest for the next hour. And no snacks until lunch."

I gasp dramatically. "That's cruel and unusual punishment!"

"Try me," she says, scribbling something on her clipboard. "I'm putting it in the chart: 'Patient continues to mistake hospital for amusement park.'"

Charlotte snorts so loudly she nearly chokes, and I lose it all over again. Yara just sighs, muttering something about "saints give me strength" as she walks away, still shaking her head.

The laughter fades slowly, replaced by the quiet hum of monitors and air vents. The kind of silence that only exists in hospitals — too clean, too still.

Charlotte rests her chin on her knees. "Do you ever get scared?" she asks suddenly. "Like, what if we never leave?"

I glance at her — her IV line, the tube coming out of her nose, the faint shadows under her eyes, the way her smile wobbles just slightly when she asks that.

"Yeah," I say honestly. "All the time."
Then I smile, soft but steady. "That's why I keep causing chaos. If I can't live out there, I'll live loud in here."

She looks at me for a long second, then bursts out laughing again. "You're ridiculous."

"I prefer inspiring," I say, smirking. "But I'll take ridiculous."

We sit together for a while, just breathing. The aquarium hums softly. Somewhere down the hall, someone's heart monitor beeps in perfect rhythm with mine.

Charlotte looks over and grins. "You know they're gonna move someone into your room today, right?"

I blink. "Wait—what?"

"Yeah," she says casually. "I overheard Dr. Monroe talking. Some guy with lung issues. You're getting a roommate, Eli."

"Excuse me?" I sit up straighter, mock-scandalized. "What if he's boring? What if he hates glitter? Or worse—what if he tells me to be quiet?"

Charlotte smirks. "Then you'll talk louder."

"Exactly."

We both laugh again, but something in me hums differently this time. A spark of curiosity, like the air before a storm.

A new patient. A new face. Someone who doesn't already know all my chaos, or the sound of my laugh echoing down these sterile halls.

Maybe he'll ignore me. Maybe he'll think I'm annoying. Maybe he'll change everything.

The thought makes my heart stutter — not in the scary, medical way, but in the maybe-something's-coming way.

Charlotte glances at me, eyes glimmering. "You're thinking about it, aren't you?"

"Me? No. Definitely not. I'm thinking about lunch."

She grins. "Liar."

I grin back. "Maybe."

We sit there, two girls with fragile bodies and unstoppable spirits, giggling in the middle of a hallway that smells like disinfectant and second chances.

And for that tiny moment, life feels infinite.

Until Yara marches back over to us, looking pretty annoyed but I can see a spark of amusement in her eyes.

Her "mom voice" could silence an army.

She's marching beside us now, one hand on Charlotte's wheelchair and the other flicking her pen like a sword. "You two are officially on bed rest. If I catch either of you out of your rooms, I'm putting cones of shame over your heads."

"Like dogs?" Charlotte asks, innocent eyes wide.

"Exactly like dogs."

"I'd look cute in one," I say, trailing beside them. "Bedazzle it a little. Add some glitter—"

"Don't tempt me, Eliora," Yara warns.

Charlotte and I both start snickering again.

"Not. Another. Word," she says, holding up a finger without looking at us. "Not one more pun, not one more joke, and no more races. You're on my radar for the rest of the day."

"Yes, ma'am," we say in perfect unison.

We make it about three steps before Charlotte whispers, "Ten bucks says she forgets by dinner."

I grin. "You're on."

Yara sighs without turning around. "I can still hear you."

We freeze, then burst out laughing.

By the time we reach Charlotte's room, Nurse Patel is waiting at the door with a look that could curdle milk. Charlotte wheels herself in dramatically like she's entering a courtroom.

"I'd like to plead temporary joy-induced insanity." She announces.

Patel points toward her bed. "Sit."

Charlotte salutes, then leans toward me with a smirk. "See you at group therapy, rebel."

"Try not to get caught smuggling pudding again," I whisper.

"No promises," she says, grinning as Patel shuts the curtain.

Yara gives me the look — the one that says don't even think about it. I throw my hands up. "I'm going, I'm going! Bed rest, I swear."

She escorts me back to my room like a bodyguard escorting a celebrity who refuses to behave. My IV pole squeaks dramatically behind me like it's protesting the injustice.

"You know," I say as we walk, "you should really thank me. My shenanigans keep your job exciting."

"My job was already exciting," she replies. "You just make it louder."

When we reach my door, she stops and softens, her voice dipping into that gentle tone she saves for when my sarcasm runs out. "Take it easy, okay? Your heart rate spiked earlier. Just rest for a bit."

I nod. "Promise."

"Good. And don't make me come back in here for another rescue mission."

I grin. "Wouldn't dream of it."

She narrows her eyes like she knows I'm lying but lets it slide. "You're lucky everyone here loves you, Eliora."

"I know," I say with mock modesty. "I'm irresistibly charming."

She rolls her eyes and leaves, muttering, "You're irresistibly exhausting."

The door clicks shut behind her, and suddenly the room feels still again. The adrenaline fades, leaving behind the soft hum of machines and the faint smell of lavender disinfectant.

I crawl into bed, tug the blanket over my chest, and let the quiet settle around me. My heart monitor chirps softly, steady and alive.

Across the hall, I can hear Charlotte laughing faintly with her nurse — that warm, tired kind of laugh that comes after you've caused enough trouble to feel human again.

I smile to myself. "Totally worth it."

The laughter drifts away. The hallway grows quieter. Somewhere down the corridor, wheels squeak — slow, heavy, deliberate.

I close my eyes for a moment, breathing in the calm, not realizing that everything is about to change.