Chapter 1

The cafeteria cocoa tasted like wet cardboard and disappointment. I swirled the plastic spoon, watching a lone, shriveled marshmallow sink to the bottom of the cup. Outside the window of Room 402, Chicago was a blur of festive lights and falling snow, but inside, the world was a flat, sterile gray. I felt like I was fading into the white sheets of my bed, becoming just another chart for the night shift to initial.

Then the door kicked open. Not a polite knock, but a rhythmic, syncopated bang that could only belong to one person.

"Base Camp Everest, do you read me?" Maya hissed. She slid into the room like a commando, draped in a scarf made of tacky silver tinsel that shed tiny metallic needles with every movement. She wasn't carrying a gift; she was carrying a roll of medical tape and a bundle of stolen tongue depressors.

"Maya, it’s eleven p.m.," I whispered, glancing nervously at the heart monitor chirping beside me. "The nurses—"

"You mean the Yetis?" she interrupted, her eyes sparking with a familiar, dangerous mischief. "The Alpha Yeti is currently distracted at the nursing station with a box of glazed donuts. This is our window, Leo. We have a mission."

"I’m literally tethered to a machine," I said, gesturing to the clear tube snaking from my arm to the tall metal pole.

Maya didn't blink. She grabbed the roll of tape and began strapping tongue depressors to the handles of my wheelchair, creating what looked like jagged, wooden bayonets. "Nonsense. This isn't an IV pole; it’s a ceremonial staff of power. And this," she patted the seat of the wheelchair, "is the Reconnaissance Rover. We’re going to the North Lounge."

"Why?"

"Because the Star of Wonder is there, and Base Camp is too dark. We need the light to signal the rescue planes."

She didn't wait for a formal agreement. She helped me slide out of bed—a slow, awkward process that made me feel fragile—and settled me into the Rover. She draped a spare hospital blanket over my shoulders like a regal cape. For the first time in weeks, the knot of boredom in my chest loosened, replaced by a sharp, cold spike of adrenaline.

"Silencers on," Maya whispered, pushing me toward the door. The rubber wheels of the chair squeaked once, then fell silent as we transitioned to the linoleum of the hallway.

The corridor was a canyon of shadows. Every hum of the vending machine was a distant landslide; every flickering fluorescent light was a lightning strike in the mountains. Maya stayed low, her tinsel scarf trailing behind her like a silver tail. We reached the "Crevasse"—the long, open stretch of hallway directly in view of the nursing station.

"Stop," I breathed, my heart rate monitor on my wrist ticking faster. "Nurse Miller. The Yeti."

At the far end of the hall, the night nurse was leaning over the counter, her silhouette formidable against the glow of the computer screens. She was the gatekeeper. If she caught us, the mission was over, and I’d be back in the cage of my blankets.

"Creative solutions, Leo," Maya whispered. "Give me a distraction."

I looked at the tongue depressor 'swords' taped to my chair. I reached out and grabbed a stray roll of gauze from a supply cart we were passing. I tied it to the end of a stick and tossed it toward a laundry bin twenty feet away. It landed with a soft *thud*.

Nurse Miller turned her head toward the sound. In that split second of diverted attention, Maya surged forward. She didn't just walk; she sprinted in a crouch, pushing my wheelchair with a burst of speed that made the air whistle past my ears. We flew across the Crevasse, ducking into the darkened entrance of the North Lounge just as the nurse turned back.

The lounge was empty, smelling of pine-scented cleaner and old magazines. But there, in the corner, sat a small, artificial tree topped with a battery-operated, gold-filigree star.

"The Star of Wonder," I whispered.

Maya tipped the chair back, allowing me to reach up. My fingers trembled as I unclipped the star from the plastic branch. It was warm and hummed slightly in my hand. It wasn't just a decoration; in this moment, it was proof that we could still take what we wanted from the world.

"Movement! Twelve o'clock!" Maya hissed.

Heavy footsteps approached the lounge. The Yeti was on the prowl. There was no time to run back.

"Camouflage!" I commanded, the creative spark finally catching fire in my brain.

We backed the wheelchair into a deep alcove draped with holiday tinsel and oversized cardboard gingerbread men. Maya threw the silver scarf over both of us, and I tucked the glowing star under my chin, muffling its light against my chest. We froze.

Nurse Miller walked past the lounge door. Her shadow stretched long and dark across the floor, pausing for a heartbeat that felt like an hour. My pulse thundered in my ears, a rhythmic drumbeat of a real adventure. Then, the shadow moved on. The footsteps faded.

"Extraction successful," Maya exhaled, her grin visible in the dark.

We made it back to Room 402 without further incident, retreating into the sanctuary of the white walls. But the room felt different now. Maya used the medical tape to secure the Star of Wonder to the very top of my IV pole.

As I climbed back into bed, I didn't feel like a patient anymore. I felt like a mountaineer resting after a summit. The star cast a soft, golden glow over the sterile room, turning the shadows into the silhouettes of distant peaks.

"Merry Christmas, Leo," Maya said, dropping the tinsel scarf onto my feet.

"Merry Christmas, Maya," I replied, watching the light. The hospital hadn't changed, but I had. I wasn't missing out on anything. The adventure was right here, taped to a pole and glowing in the dark.