Relatives asked whether his latest tests were encouraging.
But people rarely asked how I was holding up without immediately needing something from me.
I looked at the coffee cup in my hand.
"I'm tired."
Wade nodded.
"Figured."
I glanced at him.
"That's an understatement."
He gave a small smile.
"Usually is."
For a while, we sat in silence.
Then Eli shifted beneath his blanket.
Wade immediately lowered his voice.
"He's a good little man."
I looked at my son.
"He's everything."
The biker nodded.
"I can see that."
Something in his tone made me study him.
He spoke as though he understood the weight behind those words.
But before I could ask anything, the nurse entered, and the moment passed.
During the first month, I learned several things about Wade.
He repaired motorcycles for a living.
He belonged to a local riding club.
He drank his coffee black and claimed that hospital coffee was strong enough to dissolve metal.
He hated elevators but used them anyway because the stairs made his knees ache.
He had a collection of terrible jokes.
And he could make almost any toy car interesting simply by inventing a ridiculous backstory for it.
One yellow car was supposedly owned by a secret government agent who only accepted payment in chicken nuggets.
A green pickup had been banned from seven racetracks for carrying illegal quantities of broccoli.
A black convertible belonged to a wealthy penguin who wore sunglasses.
Eli believed every word for approximately three seconds.
Then he would laugh and announce that Wade was making things up.
The biker always pretended to be offended.
"Son, I have never exaggerated a single thing in my life."
Eli would point at his beard.
"Yes, you have."
Wade would gasp.
"How can you tell?"
"Because you said your motorcycle can fly."
"Only when nobody's watching."
My son would giggle until he needed to rest.
Those mornings slowly became the most dependable part of our hospital life.
Treatment schedules changed.
Test results fluctuated.
Doctors adjusted plans according to Eli's condition.
But Wade's visits were remarkably consistent, always within the hospital's rules and the limits of Eli's health.
When the medical team restricted visitors, Wade didn't argue.
He left the toys with the appropriate staff or waved from a distance when permitted. On days when Eli was well enough for a phone call, he occasionally arranged a brief imaginary race from another room.
He never made the nurses explain their decisions twice.
That impressed me.
I had seen visitors become frustrated when hospital rules interfered with their plans. Some people seemed to believe their good intentions should exempt them from precautions.