A father who still carried it.
I looked at the nurse.
"Do you know where he is?"
She hesitated.
"He was here earlier. He wanted to drop off a few things for the children's program."
I turned toward the elevator.
"Is he still here?"
The nurse glanced toward the windows.
"I saw him go toward the courtyard."
I nodded.
Then I began walking.
I found Wade sitting alone on a wooden bench beneath the trees.
His motorcycle helmet rested beside him.
He wasn't wearing his leather vest.
Without it, he looked different.
Still enormous.
Still covered in tattoos.
But somehow smaller, as though the weight he was carrying had finally begun to bend him.
The little red car rested in his palm.
He was staring at it.
I stopped several feet away.
For a moment, I considered turning back.
The nurse's words were still echoing in my mind.
Her name was Lily.
She was six.
She had leukemia.
I didn't want to intrude on his grief.
But I thought of Eli upstairs, staring at the doorway and wondering whether he had done something wrong.
So I approached.
"Wade?"
He looked up.
His expression changed.
"Oh."
He immediately closed his hand around the toy.
"Ma'am."
I sat on the far end of the bench.
For a while, neither of us spoke.
The courtyard was quiet.
A breeze moved through the branches overhead, and somewhere beyond the hospital walls, traffic passed along the street.
Finally, I said, "Eli misses you."
Wade lowered his head.
"I know."
I looked at his hand.
"He thinks he did something wrong."
The biker's eyes closed.
"Oh, God."
His voice cracked.
"I didn't want that."
I swallowed.
"He keeps waiting at ten o'clock."
Wade rubbed his face.
"I'm sorry."
I shook my head.
"You don't have to apologize for being hurt."
He looked toward me.
I took a breath.
"The nurse told me about Lily."
Everything in his face changed.
For a moment, I thought he might stand and walk away.
Instead, he stared at the red car.
Then he nodded.
"Yeah."
I waited.
His hand opened slowly.
The little car was old.
Its red paint had chipped along the edges, and one wheel was slightly crooked. It was nothing special to look at, the kind of toy someone might find at the bottom of a forgotten box.
But Wade held it as though it were made of glass.
"She called it Ruby," he whispered.
I looked at the car.
"Ruby?"
He nodded.
"Because it was red."
A faint smile crossed his face.
"She wasn't much for complicated names."