Tree doctors and fox hospitals

"Tell me a story," he says. "The one about the purple fox and the red fox."

A story I’ve told before but never exactly the same.

The purple fox hurts his leg. These things happen, even to purple foxes. But it's fine because the red fox has a phone - obviously has a phone, what fox doesn't? - and there's a dinosaur doctor with medicine and ice-packs and - "And a bandaid!" - yes, and a bandaid and - "And an ice-block!" - pink, specifically pink.

I'm learning to navigate these tales where we take turns being frame-giver and frame-filler. Some details arrive fully formed and non-negotiable whereas others take consideration or negotiation. He has a pillow, does he also have a blanket? (after careful consideration: "Ummm, yep!"). 

We reach a hospital.
"And that's the end of the story?" "No, it's not."

But the hospital has a closed door. And a man. And a red sign that says DO NOT ENTER.

Suddenly we're starting again. More foxes this time. The hurt one is blue now (A different fox? The same fox after a wash? It doesn’t matter.)

“There’s no man now. The sign is green," he informs me, and obviously it is.

"There were a lot of doctors."
“Three doctors?"
"No," he says, finding what the story knew it needed all along, "there were a lot of tree doctors."

And there they are, reaching up to the sky with their leaves. Happy and healthy and strong. 

I almost missed it. Almost stuck with regular doctors when clearly what this situation needed was trees with medical degrees. Or medical trees. Or just trees, being trees, which might be the same thing.

The fox is comfortable in his bed. The pink ice-block is safely stored in its ice-block hole (which apparently hospitals have). And outside the window, tree doctors grow toward the sky.

Sometimes you have to hear something wrong to get it exactly right.

Questions for later
- What colors are your foxes today?
- Which doctors are growing outside your windows?
- What do stories know before we do?