Kidy
Today is a poorly day, little one. Your throat scratches, your head feels too warm, and your legs are strangely tired even though they have done nothing at all. Outside the window the day is happening without you, and being stuck in bed feels deeply, hugely unfair.
Growy arrives to keep you company and is terrible at it. 'Shall we play tag? No? Build a tower? Hide and seek? I will hide!' Growy builds a pillow fort right on top of your feet and knocks the water cup with an elbow. 'Growy,' you croak, patting the blanket, 'today we rest. That means: lie down. Be a warm lump.' Growy blinks, then lies down, an excellent warm lump after all.
'Now that we are quiet,' Growy whispers, 'you can hear them.' You hold your breath and listen. And there, very faint, from deep inside you: tap-tap-tap. Tiny, busy, cheerful tapping, exactly in the places that ache. 'Your repair crew,' Growy says. 'The world's smallest builders. They fix you from the inside, and they can only really work when you lie still.'
So you lie still and let them work. Every sip of water, Growy says, floats down to them like supplies on little boats. Every bit of sleep is a whole night shift. 'Resting is not doing nothing,' Growy murmurs. 'Resting is your body doing its biggest work.'
By the afternoon the tapping feels lighter, and your eyes are closing on their own, which Growy says is the repair crew asking for quiet. 'So, little one,' Growy whispers, 'did we grow a little today?' You did, even lying down. 'Here is your little grow for tonight,' says Growy. 'Put a hand on your chest and say thank you to your repair crew.' Sleep well, little one. They are on it.