At the time, I thought he was simply a kind volunteer who happened to enjoy toy cars.
I didn't know that one of the vehicles in his bag had once belonged to his daughter.
I didn't know that every time Eli laughed, Wade remembered a little girl he had lost.
And I didn't know that the next morning, at precisely ten o'clock, my son would begin waiting for him.
The following morning, Eli woke me at nine-thirty.
"Mommy?"
I lifted my head from the reclining chair.
"What is it, baby?"
He pointed toward the clock.
"Is it ten yet?"
I blinked.
For several seconds, I couldn't remember why the time mattered.
Then I understood.
"Not yet, sweetheart."
Eli frowned.
"How long?"
"About half an hour."
He considered that.
"Is half an hour big?"
I smiled.
"Not too big."
He turned toward the doorway.
"Good."
I brushed a hand across his forehead.
"Are you waiting for Wade?"
Eli nodded.
"He said we have a championship."
I laughed softly.
"Did he?"
"Yep."
"Who do you think is going to win?"
My son gave me a look of complete disbelief.
"Me, Mommy."
I should have expected that answer.
When ten o'clock arrived, Wade appeared carrying the familiar clear plastic bag.
Eli spotted him immediately.
"Wade!"
The biker stopped in the doorway.
He looked around theatrically.
"Somebody call a race car driver?"
Eli raised his hand.
"ME!"
Wade grinned.
"Well, then. We'd better get to work."
It became our morning routine.
At ten o'clock, Wade arrived.
Sometimes he brought one new car.
Sometimes he brought a small plastic road sign, a folding racetrack, or an absurd story about a motorcycle that could supposedly outrun a rocket. He never arrived with expensive gifts or made a grand entrance.
He simply showed up.
On good days, Eli sat upright and directed the races from his bed. On difficult days, Wade positioned the cars where he could see them without needing to move much. When Eli was too tired to speak, the biker narrated quietly, letting the boy respond with a nod or the smallest movement of his fingers.
Sometimes they raced for twenty minutes.
Sometimes only five.
Once, after a particularly exhausting treatment, Eli fell asleep before Wade had even unpacked the cars.
I apologized.
Wade shook his head.
"No need."
He placed the bag beside his chair and sat quietly for a few minutes.
Then he looked toward me.
"How are you holding up?"
I almost laughed.
It was such an ordinary question.
Everyone asked how Eli was doing.
Doctors asked about symptoms.
Nurses asked about his comfort.