And the eight-year-old standing in front of me, smiling at the man who had helped him remember what childhood could feel like.
I looked away.
Tears were running down my face.
Later that afternoon, Wade showed Eli the volunteer play area.
Several children were working on small activities with staff and approved volunteers. A few had toy cars, others preferred books or drawing materials, and some simply wanted someone to sit nearby.
Eli watched quietly.
Then he turned toward Wade.
"Do you still come every day?"
The biker nodded.
"As often as the program needs me and I can manage."
My son smiled.
"Good."
Wade looked at him.
"Why?"
Eli glanced toward the children.
"Because they need somebody to race."
The biker's expression softened.
"Yeah."
My son thought for a moment.
Then he asked, "Can I help when I'm bigger?"
Wade smiled.
"If it's something the hospital allows when you're old enough, I'd like that."
Eli nodded.
"Okay."
He reached into his pocket.
Then he pulled out a little blue car.
It was an old favorite, with scratches along the roof and a slightly bent axle.
Thunder.
The first car he had brought to the hospital all those years earlier.
He held it toward Wade.
The biker frowned.
"What's this?"
Eli smiled.
"For the races."
Wade looked at the toy.
"That's your favorite."
My son nodded.
"I know."
"Are you sure?"
Eli looked toward the children.
"Maybe somebody else needs it now."
Wade stared.
For several seconds, he couldn't speak.
Then he accepted the car.
His enormous hand closed gently around it.
"Thank you, champion."
Eli smiled.
"You're welcome."
The biker looked down at the old blue car.
Then he reached into his vest and pulled out Lily's little red one.
He held both toys side by side.
Blue.
Red.
Two tiny vehicles.
Two children whose lives had touched his in ways nobody could fully measure.
Wade's eyes filled.
Eli noticed.
"Don't cry."
The biker laughed softly.
"Trying not to."
My son considered that.
Then he smiled.
"It's okay if you do."
Wade looked at him.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then the biker nodded.
"Yeah, buddy."
He wiped his eyes.
"I guess it is."
Wade still volunteers at the children's hospital.
He still carries a bag of toy cars.
He still tells ridiculous stories about motorcycles that can outrun rockets, trucks powered by broccoli, and race cars driven by penguins.
He never tells sick children that they have to be brave.
He never promises that everything will turn out perfectly.
And he never assumes that making someone smile means their pain has disappeared.
Sometimes the children are excited to play.