I couldn't speak.
"She had leukemia."
My breath caught.
The nurse looked toward Eli's room.
"Wade spent a long time beside her hospital bed."
I closed my eyes.
I could suddenly picture the enormous biker sitting beside another child, his huge tattooed hands carefully moving toys across the floor.
The nurse continued.
"They used to race little cars together. Lily loved them. Especially a small red one."
I thought of the courtyard.
Of Wade sitting alone with the red toy car in his palm.
Of the way his expression changed whenever Eli laughed.
The nurse's voice trembled.
"When Lily became too weak to play, Wade would still race the cars for her. He'd make up stories and pretend the red one was winning."
I covered my mouth.
"Did she...?"
The nurse nodded.
"She died during treatment."
Tears spilled down my cheeks.
For months, I had wondered why Wade sometimes looked as though he were remembering something painful.
Now I understood.
The nurse continued.
"After Lily died, he couldn't bring himself to visit another children's hospital for a long time. Eventually, he joined the volunteer program because he wanted to do something meaningful with the toys she'd loved."
I stared at the floor.
"He brought her cars?"
"Some of them. The ones he felt ready to share."
I looked toward Eli's room.
"And the red one?"
The nurse's eyes filled.
"That was Lily's favorite."
I remembered Wade holding it in the courtyard.
The way he rolled it across his palm.
The expression on his face.
Suddenly, every small detail made sense.
The sadness in his eyes when Eli laughed.
The way he never complained about waiting.
The gentleness with which he handled every toy.
The fact that he never made promises about the future.
He had already learned how cruel those promises could become.
I wiped my cheeks.
"Why Eli?"
The nurse shook her head.
"I can't answer that for him."
Then she added something that stayed with me forever.
"He's visited other children. But I don't think he's ever been able to stay close to one child this long."
I looked toward the door.
The nurse spoke softly.
"Maybe he found something here that he thought he'd lost."
I stared at Eli's room.
My son was sitting beneath his blanket, waiting for a man who had spent an entire year showing him how to laugh through suffering.
And somewhere nearby, that man was struggling with memories of a little girl he couldn't bring back.
I felt overwhelmed by grief for someone I had never met.
Lily.
Six years old.
A little red car.