The Christmas Cure [Reliable ◆]

“Why aren’t you home?” Clara asked, her voice a thin paper-cut of a sound.

“I am home,” Elias replied, checking her vitals. “The hospital is where I belong.” The Christmas Cure

She pulled out a single, battered ornament—a glass bird with a chipped wing. She held it out with a trembling hand. “Take it. It only works if you give it away.” “Why aren’t you home

Elias felt the weight of the glass bird in his pocket. He didn’t reach for a flashlight first; he reached for the ornament. As he pulled it out, a stray beam of emergency light hit the glass, fracturing into a hundred tiny rainbows across the darkened hallway. She held it out with a trembling hand

An hour later, the hospital generators groaned and died. A freak ice storm had severed the main line. The backup lights flickered to a dim, eerie orange. In the sudden silence, the panic of the ward began to rise. Machines beeped warnings; patients called out in the dark.

His patient in Room 4 was a young girl named Clara, admitted for a stubborn pneumonia that refused to break. While the rest of the town was tucked away in warm living rooms, Clara sat propped up against clinical white pillows, her breath coming in shallow, rhythmic rasps.