"Mommy?"
"Yes?"
"Can we send him something?"
I nodded.
"Of course."
My son asked for a piece of paper.
With my help, he drew three cars.
Blue.
Green.
Red.
Then he dictated a message.
Dear Wade,
Don't be sad.
We're still racing.
Love, Eli.
I read it aloud.
My son nodded.
"That's good."
Then he added, "And Lily."
I smiled.
"All right."
I wrote her name beneath his.
When Wade received the note, he called me.
His voice was unsteady.
"Did he really say that?"
I nodded, even though he couldn't see me.
"Every word."
There was a long pause.
Then he whispered, "That boy."
I heard him clear his throat.
"He doesn't know how much he means to me."
I looked toward Eli's bed.
"Maybe more than you think."
Wade was quiet.
Then he said, "Tell him I got the message."
I smiled.
"I will."
"And tell him the green truck's engine is being rebuilt."
I laughed.
"What's wrong with it?"
The biker sighed dramatically.
"Excessive broccoli consumption."
I shook my head.
"You're ridiculous."
He laughed.
"That's what Eli says."
For the first time that week, I found myself smiling without effort.
The hardest conversation Eli and Wade ever had happened on a quiet afternoon several months later.
My son had been feeling better and was sitting upright with the wooden racetrack in front of him. Wade had brought Lily's red car, and they were preparing to begin another championship.
Eli looked at the car.
Then at Wade.
"Can I ask you something?"
The biker smiled.
"Sure, little man."
My son hesitated.
"Did Lily hurt when she was sick?"
The question made the room go still.
I looked up immediately.
Wade's expression changed.
For a moment, I considered interrupting.
But he looked toward me and gave a small nod, indicating that he was comfortable answering.
He turned back to Eli.
"Sometimes she didn't feel good."
My son looked down.
"Like me?"
"Some days were hard for her too."
Eli studied the red car.
"Did you help her?"
Wade nodded.
"Every way I knew how."
My son was quiet.
Then he asked, "Did you make her better?"
The biker closed his eyes.
I could see the question had reached the deepest part of his grief.
He took a slow breath.
"No, buddy."
Eli looked up.
"Why?"
Wade's voice trembled.
"Because some illnesses are bigger than what parents can fix. Her doctors tried very hard, and we loved her every day. But she died."
My son considered that.
Then he asked something that surprised us both.
"Was it your fault?"