“Will it hurt?” Tears glistened in Molly’s eyes as she peered down at our operating table. 

“Not one bit,” I assured her, stroking back her matted hair. Several strands wound around her plastic tiara in little knots and I winced at the thought of untangling it. It wouldn’t be pretty.

Snot began to drip from Molly’s red nose, and I lifted a tissue to clean it off. “How can you be sure?” She asked, in the high-pitched squeak that always seemed to emanate from children when crying was involved.

“Because.” I lifted a plastic syringe from the toy doctor set that had been her last birthday present. “I’m going to give Mr. Teddy a shot and it will make him fall asleep for a little while.”

“Like Sleeping Beauty?” The tears stalled in their tracks as she leaned in with refreshed interest. It wasn’t every day that we had a real patient to play doctor with. 

“Exactly like Sleeping Beauty,” I crooned. “And then he’ll wake up when we’re all finished.”

I looked down at the little black beads that served as Mr. Teddy’s eyes. They didn’t betray an ounce of the disaster that was the rest of his body. One ear dangled from the worn fleece of his head and both arms were completely severed. He needed a lot more than the band aid that had gotten stuck to his chest in Molly’s desperate attempts to put him back together.

Her little fingers worried away at the cheap, sparkly fabric of her princess dress. “But how will he know when it’s time to wake up?”

“The beautiful princess will kiss him.” I bopped her on the nose and she giggled, a gurgling sound that reminded me of her days in the high chair clipped to the counter, laughter bubbling out of her little tummy as Mike made faces at her behind oven mitts. 

“Okay. But what if the shot hurts him while he’s still awake?”

I tried to hide my smile at the slew of questions; this was a very serious affair to my precious five-year-old. “Why don’t you hold his hand? Then you can share some of your bravery with him.”

Molly thought about this for a moment—ever the little surgeon deciding on a treatment plan—and then nodded before squeezing a fuzzy paw of her plush teddy bear. “Okay. He’s ready.”

“Okay. I’m going to count to three, ready? One, two,” she squinted her eyes shut as I set the thick tip of the toy needle to the chubby leg of Mr. Teddy. “Three. There. All done,” I said, setting the toy back in the kit. 

She popped one eye open, her face pinched in worry. “Did he cry?”

“No. He was very brave.”

Slowly, Molly unclenched her face. 

“Why don’t you go play with Stingray Ray now, hmm? I’m sure he’s missing his friend Mr. Teddy very much.”

As much fun as she always had playing doctor on Daddy—who feigned obscure illnesses for the sake of the game—I wasn’t sure she was cut out for the sharp sting of my sewing needle. Mr. Teddy was as good as a real person in Molly’s world and this was all too real an act. It was better for surgery to remain magical—one fairy godmother later and you’d have a whole bear again. It was simpler. Less messy.

“Maybe you can make him feel better while I do the surgery,” I said.

“You’ll take good care of him?” She croaked in her sad little voice. I didn’t miss it when her eyes slid to the toy chest in the living room. She wanted the excuse just as badly as I did. 

“The best.” I planted a kiss on her forehead and steered her around the counter. The little nudge had her prancing towards the couch and flouncing down in front of the full box of toys. Seconds later, she was absorbed in a new game of pretend, and I turned back to my task. 

Poor Mr. Teddy, I thought as I picked up a stray arm and fit it back into the socket. I sighed, tucked the stuffing inside his limbs and chest, and set my needle to work. 

What a mess.

An hour later the phone rang. It was ten minutes before five. Twenty-eight minutes before Mike had said he’d be home.

I picked up the land line and held it to my ear, one hand gripping the needle I’d just pulled through a stitch. 

Across town, on the fourth floor of the local hospital, in a light blue painted room with a stark white floor and a perfectly starched bed, the nurse came in to collect his things. He’d fallen asleep. No princess had been there to wake him up.

He’d died on the table. 

The phone call was just a courtesy.