Be silly
“Ready? Set—go!”
“Are you sure this is safe?” Annie called.
Polly and her opponent ignored her, racing past in wheelchairs, hands frantically spinning. They sped the length of the corridor, screeching to a halt beside a rack of sheets. A passing nurse dropped a pile of bedpans, swearing like a trooper.
Dr. Max stuck his head out of his cupboard-office, irate, hair sticking up. “I might have known it was you, Polly. But, Ahmed, I thought better of you?”
“I’m sorry, sir,” Ahmed said meekly. He was seventeen and totally bald, wearing Action Man pajamas. He had a brain aneurysm which was threatening to burst at any moment.
“Don’t listen to him, Ahmed. You’re the terror of the neurology ward. Faster than a speeding bullet.” Polly raised her hand to high-five him.
Ahmed smiled, aiming for her palm and missing it—loss of depth perception was one of his side effects. Dr. Max met Annie’s eyes down the corridor, and she shrugged. It was all Polly’s idea—the Great Neurology Ward Pentathlon. Next event: bedpan curling using a mop as a stick. Dr. Max rolled his eyes, offering a small blink-and-you’d-miss-it smile, then ducked back into his office-cupboard.