"No race."
The biker nodded.
"Okay."
Eli remained quiet.
Wade sat beside the bed.
After several minutes, my son whispered, "I hate being sick."
The biker looked at him.
"I bet."
Eli's voice trembled.
"I want to go home."
"I know."
"I want my hair."
Wade lowered his gaze.
My son continued.
"I want to run."
The biker remained silent.
Then Eli turned toward him.
"Why can't I just be regular?"
I felt tears rising.
Wade took a long breath.
Then he said, "Little man, I don't have an answer that makes this fair."
Eli stared at him.
The biker continued.
"I wish I did."
My son looked down.
Wade leaned forward slightly.
"But you're still Eli."
My son frowned.
"What?"
"You're still the boy who makes up impossible races and tells me my motorcycle needs a rocket engine."
Eli blinked.
"That's because it does."
Wade smiled.
"Exactly."
My son's expression softened.
The biker continued.
"Being sick is something you're dealing with. It isn't everything you are."
For a long moment, Eli looked at him.
Then he whispered, "I'm a racer."
Wade nodded.
"The best one I know."
My son reached for the blue car.
Not to race.
Just to hold.
Wade sat quietly beside him.
And I realized that one of the greatest gifts the biker had given Eli was permission to have a bad day without feeling that he had disappointed anyone.
During one particularly difficult hospital stay, Eli was placed under additional precautions while his medical team treated an infection.
Visitors were restricted.
Wade couldn't enter the room for his usual play sessions.
He followed the instructions without complaint.
Every morning at ten, he checked with the volunteer coordinator to see whether Eli was well enough for any approved contact.
Some days, the answer was no.
On those mornings, he left a note.
Sometimes the note contained a drawing of a ridiculous vehicle.
One showed a green pickup truck with wings.
Another showed a yellow race car being chased by an enormous chicken.
A third showed a black motorcycle carrying so many balloons that it appeared to be floating above the mountains.
The notes were cleaned or handled according to the ward's procedures before reaching Eli.
My son treasured them.
He kept them in a folder beside his bed and asked me to read them when he felt tired.
One morning, Wade drew a tiny red car beside a blue one.
Underneath, he wrote:
The championship is postponed. Both drivers are waiting for their favorite racer.
Eli smiled.
Then he looked toward me.