He seemed disappointed by those discoveries.
Wade insisted that engineers were constantly making progress.
My son told him to stop making excuses.
Their arguments became an affectionate tradition.
The blue car remained in Eli's room.
The wooden racetrack stayed on a shelf.
And every time Wade visited, he brought Lily's little red car.
The paint continued to fade.
One wheel never rolled quite as smoothly as the others.
But neither of them seemed to care.
Some races were still won by blue.
Some by red.
And sometimes they agreed that both cars had crossed the finish line together.
When Eli turned eight, he asked to visit the children's hospital.
Not for an appointment.
Not because he was sick.
He wanted to see Wade volunteering.
I spoke with the hospital team about what was appropriate, and we arranged a visit that respected the privacy and safety of the children receiving care.
Eli was nervous as we entered the familiar building.
I was too.
The smell of disinfectant brought back memories so quickly that I had to stop near the entrance. For a moment, I was again the frightened mother holding a paper cup of cold coffee while her four-year-old son lay exhausted in a hospital bed.
Then Eli took my hand.
"Mommy?"
I looked down.
"Yes?"
"Are you okay?"
I smiled through tears.
"I am."
He nodded.
"Good."
We walked toward the volunteer area.
And there was Wade.
Sitting on the floor.
His hair was grayer now, and his beard had grown even thicker. He still wore his black T-shirt and familiar leather vest, though he had finally admitted that kneeling on hospital floors was becoming more difficult.
A little boy sat nearby with a toy truck.
Wade was explaining that the vehicle had once crossed the desert in record time.
The child looked skeptical.
"Really?"
Wade nodded gravely.
"Absolutely."
Eli leaned toward me.
"He's lying."
I laughed softly.
"He's telling a story."
My son grinned.
"He's still doing it."
Wade looked up.
When he saw us, his face lit up.
"Well, look who finally decided to visit!"
Eli smiled.
"Hi, Wade."
The biker stood slowly.
His knees cracked.
My son laughed.
"Your legs are still broken."
Wade sighed.
"Getting worse every year."
Eli grinned.
"Maybe you need a mechanic."
The biker pointed at him.
"That's what I've been saying."
They hugged carefully.
I stood nearby, watching.
For a moment, I saw two versions of my son.
The little boy in gray hospital pajamas, too weak to sit upright for long.