His enormous tattooed fingers closed around it with extraordinary care.
"Thank you," he whispered.
Eli smiled.
"You're welcome."
Wade lowered his gaze.
I saw something shine in his eyes.
He blinked several times and cleared his throat.
Then he returned the blue car.
"All right, champion. Better not let the fire truck win."
Eli immediately began shouting race instructions.
The moment passed.
But I didn't forget it.
There was something about that tiny exchange that seemed to touch a part of Wade he kept carefully hidden.
At the time, I assumed he had children or grandchildren somewhere.
I had no idea how wrong and how right I was.
By December, Eli had begun referring to Wade as his racing partner.
Not his visitor.
Not the biker.
His partner.
He talked about him to everyone.
When a doctor entered, Eli announced that Wade's motorcycle could outrun a helicopter.
When a nurse adjusted his blanket, he explained that the blue car was the fastest machine in the hospital.
When another child stopped outside his room, he offered a detailed account of Wade's imaginary racing championship.
The nurses began smiling whenever they heard heavy footsteps approaching at ten o'clock.
One morning, a nurse looked toward the elevator and said, "Here comes the racing department."
Wade emerged carrying a paper bag.
He bowed.
"Your fastest department, ma'am."
Eli laughed from his bed.
The older man's visits became part of the hospital's routine too.
He spent time with other children through the volunteer program, particularly those who enjoyed toy cars or quiet games. Sometimes he helped a teenager assemble a model motorcycle. Sometimes he sat with a child who didn't feel like talking and simply remained nearby until it was time to leave.
But every morning, he reserved a visit for Eli.
I began noticing how carefully he protected that time.
If another volunteer asked him to help with something, he checked whether it could wait.
If his repair shop had an urgent customer, he arranged the work around his hospital responsibilities when possible.
If he was running late, he called the volunteer coordinator so Eli wouldn't spend the morning wondering whether something had happened.
I found that remarkable.
Most people had complicated lives.
There were jobs, families, responsibilities, and obligations that couldn't simply be set aside.
Wade had all of those things too.
Yet he kept returning.
I didn't understand how.
One afternoon, after he had left, I asked a nurse whether he had been volunteering there long.
She smiled.
"A while."
"He's very good with the children."
"He is."
I glanced toward the hallway.