The edges had been carefully rounded and finished, and Wade explained that the hospital had checked the materials before he brought it into the room. It could be cleaned as required, and the cars moved easily along the grooves.
Eli immediately began planning a race.
But before they started, he looked at Wade.
"Did you get a present?"
The biker smiled.
"Sure did."
"What?"
Wade looked at him.
There was a long pause.
Then he said quietly, "I got to come see my buddy."
My throat tightened.
Eli didn't understand why those words affected me.
He simply grinned.
"That's me."
Wade laughed softly.
"Yes, sir. That's you."
They raced until Eli became tired.
Then Wade helped put the cars away.
As he prepared to leave, my son reached toward him.
"Wait."
The biker stopped.
"What's up?"
Eli picked up the green truck.
He held it out.
"For you."
Wade stared.
"Little man, that's yours."
Eli nodded.
"I know."
"Then you should keep it."
My son shook his head.
"You need a present."
The biker's expression changed.
He looked toward me.
I nodded.
"It's okay."
Wade accepted the truck.
For several seconds, he couldn't speak.
Then he lowered himself beside the bed.
"Thank you, champion."
Eli smiled.
"Merry Christmas, Wade."
The man's eyes filled.
"Merry Christmas, little man."
He left holding the green truck in his enormous hand.
I watched him disappear down the hallway.
Later, a nurse told me that he had sat alone in the volunteer lounge for several minutes before going home.
She didn't tell me why.
But I was beginning to suspect that the answer mattered.
Winter brought some of Eli's hardest days.
There were stretches when treatment left him exhausted, and the ordinary activity of sitting upright became too much. The doctors adjusted his care according to the treatment plan and his test results, while the nurses watched carefully for complications.
I began to recognize the signs that he needed rest before he said anything.
His voice became quieter.
His eyes lost their usual brightness.
Sometimes he stared at his toy cars without reaching for them.
Those were the days I struggled most.
I wanted to fill every quiet moment with encouragement.
I wanted to tell him that he was strong, that he could do this, that the difficult days would eventually end.
But Eli didn't always want encouragement.
Sometimes he wanted silence.
Wade seemed to understand that instinctively.
One morning, my son was too tired to play.
The biker arrived, took one look at him, and lowered the bag of cars.
"Rough day, champion?"
Eli nodded.