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I am holding Mason’s head underwater and counting the bubbles as they float up ... one, two, three, four, five ... Hey, it’s working. I feel calmer already.
He returns minutes later, smirking out of the beak of a rooster. I grab the handle of the bag and march out the door of the office to the waiting attendant, who is there to lead us to the children’s ward.
As we walk, I smile to myself at the shocked stares we’re getting from nurses, doctors, and nurses’ aides.
“What is that thing?” a doctor says, moving out of our way with a look of alarm.
We pass a group of nursing students.
“Make way for the rooster.” I sing out merrily. They all turn to stare.
“What ...”
“Why ...” They murmur among themselves.
“You don’t actually need to draw even more attention to me and my cock,” Mason says to me. “My cock will get plenty of attention on its own.”
“Stop saying that word.” I hiss at him. “Make way for the rooster.” I yell to everybody.
Several heads poke out of doorways to stare.
We round a corner and go down another hallway.
A nurse strides by and pauses. She leans in, speaking in a low voice. “My, Mason Raker. What a nice big cock you have. My name’s Lisa, come back here any time if you’d like any help with your ... costume.”
“Isn’t she nice, Rowan?” Mason says. “She wants to help me with my costume.”
We move down the hallway. “Cluck off, bird brain,” I murmur.
Mason snickers to himself all the way down the hall to the children’s ward. Yet another room with stark white walls decorated with fun pictures, posters, and paintings that can’t quite hide the sadness of this place.
Mason strutted into the room, flapping his wings, and all of the children burst into laughter.
“I’m right again,” I whisper to myself. “Sometimes it’s hard being me, being right all the time.”
“I can hear you,” Mason says in a low voice. Several reporters hurry over to him, clicking their cameras, and I take a few steps back, fading into the background.
Mason moves from bed to bed, smiling, chatting, crowing, and flapping his wings. He has the room in stitches. He poses for pictures with parents and children, then poses for the reporters.
The journalists are grinning from ear to ear. They are genuinely charmed. They snap a million pictures. I discreetly check my phone several times, and Twitter mentions are blowing through the roof. TheDaily Snitch’s Twitter feed is all about Mason.
Finally, the journalists leave. Shortly after that, our allotted time is up, but Mason goes and sits down next to a twelve-year-old boy named Harrison.
“How are you feeling today, Harrison?” Mason asks.
“I’m feeling like I could beat you at Uno,” Harrison says cheekily. “I have a deck. Do you think you could play?”
“I can try. You may have to remind me of the rules.”
Fortunately for Mason, the wings have openings for his hands. I have to shuffle the cards for Mason, though. Harrison deals the cards, laying them out on the small desk next to his bed.
I laugh merrily as Harrison slaps a draw four and then a draw two on Mason.
But sitting on a chair by Mason’s side, looking at Mason’s hand, I can see that he is carefully, but deliberately, letting the boy win three games in a row. He doesn’t make it too obvious, but he loses on purpose every single time.
We’ve gathered a small crowd of children and parents, and they cheer every time Harrison wins.
“Wow, good thing you’re better on the ice then you are at Uno.” Harrison crows happily.
