The Jell-O Incident

The ceiling tile had a face. Not a real face, but a stain that looked like a pirate if you squinted hard enough and tilted your head to the left, which made the IV tube tug at the back of Carl’s hand. He didn’t like the tug. It felt like a fish hook.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

The machine next to the bed was counting seconds, or maybe heartbeats, or maybe it was just talking to itself because nobody else was listening. Carl’s dad had gone to get coffee. He said ‘coffee’ but Carl knew it meant ‘calling Mom and crying in the hallway’. Dad had the red eyes again. The kind that looked like he’d been rubbing them with sandpaper.

Carl sat up. The paper sheet crinkled. It sounded like dry leaves, which was funny because outside the window, the real leaves were wet and stuck to the glass. It was raining. It had been raining since Tuesday. Or maybe Thursday. Days didn’t work right in here. They were stretchy, like old gum.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed. The floor was cold. Not ice cold, but that weird, fake cold that smells like cleaning stuff. Like lemons that aren’t real lemons. Chemical lemons. He pushed his toes into his socks. One sock had a hole in the big toe. He wiggled it. The toe looked like a little potato poking out.

Nobody came in. The nurses were busy. He could hear them laughing at the station down the hall. It sounded far away, like they were in a tunnel. Carl grabbed his IV pole. It was his metal skeleton friend. He named it Steve. Steve had wheels that squeaked.

"Come on, Steve," Carl whispered. His voice sounded scratchy. Like he’d swallowed a handful of dust.

He pushed the door open. The hallway was long. Too long. It stretched out like a rubber band. The lights hummed. A low, angry buzz that made his teeth itch. A guy in blue scrubs walked past, pushing a cart full of towels. He didn't look at Carl. He looked at his phone.

Carl walked. Or shuffled. The gown was too big. It felt like wearing a tent. He kept one hand on the wall. The wall was bumpy. Painted over a million times. If you scratched it, maybe you’d find dinosaurs underneath.

He wanted to find the window. The big one at the end of the hall that looked out at the parking lot. He liked counting the cars. Red cars were points. Blue cars were minus points. If he got to ten points, maybe the doctor would say he could go home.

But the hallway didn’t end at the window. It turned. He didn’t remember the turn. Maybe the hospital was growing. Like a maze in a video game that generates new levels while you walk.

He turned the corner. There was a room with glass walls. The Play Room. It sounded fun, but it was usually just a room with broken toys and books with pages torn out. A puzzle with missing pieces.

Inside, sitting on a beanbag chair that looked like a squashed blueberry, was a kid.

The kid had a bandage around his head. Like a ninja. Or a mummy. He was holding a plastic cup of orange Jell-O. He wasn’t eating it. He was just shaking it. Watching it wobble.

Carl stopped. Steve the IV pole squeaked. The kid looked up.

"It’s not alive," the kid said.

Carl blinked. "What?"

"The Jell-O. I thought if I shook it enough, it might wake up. But it’s just goo."

Carl stood in the doorway. He felt like he should go back. But his room was boring and smelled like Dad’s sad coffee breath. This room smelled like… crayons. Old, melted crayons.

"I’m Carl," he said.

"Sam," said the kid. Sam looked about Carl’s age. Maybe ten. Maybe eleven. He had dark hair poking out from the bandage. He wore a t-shirt with a picture of a cat in space on it. The cat was wearing a helmet.

Carl rolled Steve into the room. "Is that the orange kind?"

Sam nodded. He held up the cup. The light from the ceiling hit the Jell-O and made it glow. It looked like radioactive sludge. "It tastes like soap. But sweet soap."

Carl sat on a small yellow chair. It was too small. His knees came up high. "I had the green one yesterday. It tasted like… grass."

"Grass is okay," Sam said. He set the cup down on the low table. "Grass means outside. This tastes like the floor."

They sat there for a minute. Just breathing. The air vent in the corner rattled. It sounded like a robot coughing.

"What’s wrong with your head?" Carl asked. He knew he shouldn't ask. Mom always said *don’t stare, Carl, it’s rude*. But Mom wasn't here.

Sam touched the bandage. "They took something out. A lump. My brain was growing a rock, I think."

Carl’s eyes went wide. "A rock? Like… a pebble?"

"Maybe a diamond," Sam shrugged. "They didn't show me. They put me to sleep. I dreamed I was a balloon. I was floating over my house. I could see my dog, Buster. He was barking at a squirrel. But I couldn't bark back because I was a balloon."

Carl leaned forward. "I have to get a tube," he said. He pointed to his stomach. "Inside. The doctor said my pipes are twisted. Like a garden hose when you pull it too hard."

"Does it hurt?" Sam asked.

"Yeah. Sometimes it feels like there’s a crab inside. Pinching me."

Sam nodded seriously. "Crabs are mean. I got bit by one at the beach once. On my toe."

"Did you cry?"

"No," Sam lied. He looked at the floor. "Okay, yeah. A little bit. But only because it surprised me."

Carl looked at the window in the Play Room. It was dark now. The rain was smears of light from the streetlamps. "It looks like we’re underwater," Carl said. "The hospital. It’s a big submarine."

Sam looked at the window. He tilted his head. The bandage shifted slightly. "No. Not a submarine. A fish tank. We’re the fish."

Carl laughed. A short, dry sound. "Yeah. And the nurses are the… what? The snails? The ones that clean the glass?"

"Yeah! And the doctors are the sharks," Sam said. His eyes lit up. "Big white sharks with stethoscopes."

"Dr. Miller has a big nose," Carl said. "He looks like a hammerhead."

Sam giggled. It was a wheezy sound. "Dr. Patel is nice though. She’s like… a dolphin. She gave me stickers."

"I didn't get stickers," Carl said, feeling a sudden poke of jealousy. "I just got this." He shook his wristband. Plastic. Itched.

"You want a sticker? I have one on my foot." Sam pointed to his sneaker. There was a sticker of a star on the rubber part.

"That’s okay," Carl said.

Silence again. Heavier this time. The kind of silence that happens when you remember where you are.

"I’m scared," Carl said. He didn't mean to say it. It just fell out of his mouth. Like a loose tooth.

Sam stopped shaking the Jell-O. He looked at Carl. His face was pale, shadows under his eyes like bruises. "Me too. I don't want to be a balloon again. What if I float away and don't come back?"

Carl gripped the cold metal of Steve the IV pole. "My dad says I’m brave. But I’m not. I cried when they put the needle in."

"Crying is okay," Sam said. He poked the Jell-O with his finger. It made a squelching noise. "My kokum—my grandma—she says tears wash your eyes so you can see better."

"My eyes just get puffy," Carl mumbled.

Sam pulled his finger out of the Jell-O. It was covered in orange goo. He stared at it. Then, very slowly, he moved his finger toward his nose. He booped himself on the nose. A dot of orange stayed there.

Carl stared. "What are you doing?"

"War paint," Sam said seriously. "If we’re gonna fight the sharks. We need war paint."

Carl felt a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. It felt weird. His face had been stiff all day. "You look like a clown."

"Clowns are scary," Sam said. "Sharks are afraid of clowns. Everyone knows that. It’s science."

"That’s not science," Carl giggled. "Sharks eat clowns."

"No way. They taste funny." Sam grinned. "Get it? Funny?"

Carl groaned. It was a bad joke. A Dad Joke. But he laughed. He couldn't help it. "Give me some."

Sam held out the cup. Carl dipped his finger in. It was cold and slimy. He hesitated, then dotted his own nose. Then his cheeks. He drew a line across his forehead.

"You look like a tiger," Sam said. "A tiger with the measles."

"You look like…" Carl squinted. "Like you got sneezed on by a giant orange."

Sam burst out laughing. He laughed so hard he started coughing, holding his ribs. "A giant orange! Achoo!"

Carl started laughing too. It felt bubbly in his chest. The crab in his stomach stopped pinching for a second. They sat there, two boys in a quiet room, covered in sticky orange spots, laughing until their sides hurt.

"We should escape," Sam whispered, wiping a tear from his eye. "We can take Steve. He can be our getaway car."

"Steve is slow," Carl said. "And he squeaks. The sharks will hear us."

"We’ll grease his wheels with pudding," Sam plotted. His eyes were bright now. The sadness was still there, tucked in the corners, but the fear was hiding behind the laughter. "Chocolate pudding. It’s slippery."

"Where would we go?" Carl asked. "It’s raining."

"To the moon," Sam pointed to his shirt. "My cat is already there. We can ride him."

"He’s a cat. He’s small."

"In space, cats are huge," Sam stated with absolute authority. "Like… the size of a bus. And they purr like engines."

Carl imagined it. Riding a giant cat through the stars. The hospital shrinking below them until it was just a little white Lego block. No more needles. No more beeping machines. Just purring and stars.

"Okay," Carl said. "Let’s go."

Sam stood up. He wobbled a bit. Carl reached out and grabbed his arm to steady him. Sam’s arm was warm. Real. Not plastic or metal.

"Thanks," Sam said.

"Ready?" Carl asked.

"Ready." Sam raised his orange-stained finger in the air. "To the cafeteria! To get the pudding!"

They marched out of the room. A parade of two. Carl pushing Steve, Sam leading the way with his ninja bandage. The hallway didn't look so long anymore. The hum of the lights wasn't so angry. It was just a noise.

They passed the nurses' station. A nurse looked up. She had glasses on a chain. She saw them. Two boys in oversized gowns, faces painted with Jell-O, marching with grim determination.

"Hey!" she called out. "Where do you two think you’re going?"

Sam froze. He looked at Carl. Carl looked at Sam.

"Run!" Sam whispered loudly.

They didn't run. They couldn't run. They shuffled faster. Steve squeaked frantically. *Squeak-squeak-squeak*.

"The sharks are attacking!" Carl yelled, giggling.

The nurse stood up. She wasn't mad. She was smiling. But she was coming toward them.

"Abort mission!" Sam yelled. He tried to turn around but tripped over his own slipper. He didn't fall, but he bumped into the wall. *Thump*.

Carl grabbed him. "I got you."

They leaned against the wall, out of breath, even though they’d only gone ten feet. They looked at each other and dissolved into giggles again. Stupid, helpless giggles.

"We didn't get the pudding," Sam gasped.

"Next time," Carl promised.

The nurse reached them. She looked at their faces. "Well," she said, putting her hands on her hips. "I see the orange flu is going around."

Sam straightened up, trying to look tall. "It’s war paint. We’re hunting sharks."

"Is that so?" The nurse tapped her chin. "Well, hunting season is over. It’s time for meds."

The word landed like a heavy stone. *Meds*. The bubble popped. The spaceship cat vanished. They were just kids in a hospital again.

Carl felt his shoulders slump. The crab woke up in his stomach. "Do I have to?"

"Yes, sweetie. And your dad is looking for you. He’s worried."

Carl nodded. He looked at Sam. Sam looked small again. The ninja bandage looked just like a bandage.

"I have to go," Carl said.

"Yeah," Sam said. He wiped his nose, smearing the orange even more. "Me too."

"See you later?" Carl asked.

"Yeah. Later." Sam gave a little wave. "Watch out for sharks."

"You too."

Carl let the nurse guide him back toward his room. He looked back once. Sam was standing in the middle of the hallway, a small, lonely figure under the buzzing lights. But he was smiling. Just a little bit.

Carl touched his own cheek. It was sticky. He smiled too.

Back in the room, his dad was there. He jumped up when Carl walked in.

"Carl! God, I was… where were you?" Dad’s voice cracked.

"Just walking, Dad. With Steve."

Dad looked at his face. He blinked. "What is… is that Jell-O?"

Carl rubbed his nose. "It’s war paint."

Dad let out a breath that sounded like a tire deflating. He hugged Carl. It was a tight hug. A scared hug. Carl patted Dad’s back.

"It’s okay, Dad," Carl said. And for the first time in three days, he actually believed it. "It’s just a fish tank."

Dad pulled back and looked at him, confused. But before he could ask, the intercom on the wall clicked. A voice, loud and metallic, filled the room.

"Code Blue, Room 402. Code Blue, Room 402."

Carl froze. His heart hammered against his ribs like a bird trapped in a box. 402. That was the room at the end of the hall.

The Play Room was next to 402.

But Sam hadn't said his room number.

Carl ran to the door. Dad tried to grab him, "Carl, wait—"

Carl looked out into the hallway. Nurses were running. The laughing nurse from before wasn't smiling anymore. She was sprinting, pushing a cart with a crash box. They were running toward the end of the hall. Toward the Play Room. Toward where Sam had been walking.

The hallway felt like it was stretching again. Getting longer and longer. The lights seemed to flicker. The squeak of Steve the IV pole echoed in his ears, but Steve wasn't moving.

"Sam?" Carl whispered.