“Did you bring that for Mommy?”
“Yes.”
He smiled.
“She was crying about it.”
Angie turned away.
I looked at the boy.
“Well, maybe it'll give her one less thing to worry about.”
He considered that.
Then he held out Captain Chomp.
“You can hold him.”
I accepted the dinosaur.
It was missing one plastic eye.
Its fabric was worn.
But Tucker handed it over with the solemn trust of a man transferring a valuable piece of equipment.
I examined it.
“Strong jaws.”
Tucker nodded.
“Very strong.”
I looked toward him.
“Does he fight monsters?”
His smile faded slightly.
“Sometimes.”
I hesitated.
Then I said, “Well, he looks like he'd make a good teammate.”
Tucker nodded.
He seemed satisfied.
We stayed for coffee.
Angie told us more about Tucker's routine and the restrictions his medical team recommended during periods when he was more vulnerable to infection.
Ron asked practical questions.
Could we bring meals?
Were there foods Tucker tolerated better on treatment days?
Did she need help getting groceries?
Was it easier to receive phone calls or text messages?
Angie seemed surprised that we were asking instead of deciding.
She told us that some days Tucker could eat normally.
Other days, the smell of cooking made him nauseated.
She preferred simple meals she could refrigerate and reheat.
She also said visitors needed to coordinate with her because she couldn't risk exposing Tucker to illness.
We agreed.
Then she hesitated.
“There's one more thing.”
I looked at her.
“What?”
“My car.”
Ron leaned forward.
“What's wrong with it?”
“The tires are bad. I keep putting off replacing them.”
Ron nodded.
“What size?”
She gave him the information.
He wrote it down.
“We'll see what we can do.”
Angie looked embarrassed.
“I can't pay for new tires.”
Ron shook his head.
“Didn't ask.”
She looked toward me.
I smiled.
“One thing at a time.”
By Friday, Angie had safe new tires installed through a local garage whose owner had known Ron for years.
The shop agreed to provide the labor.
We covered the tires.
Angie called me afterward.
Her voice was shaking.
“I made it to the hospital without worrying every time I hit a pothole.”
I didn't know how to answer.
I'd spent years thinking that helping a sick child required enormous gestures.
I was beginning to understand that sometimes the most meaningful help was a washing machine, a set of tires, or somebody remembering to call.
That weekend, the Iron Ghosts held a meeting in our clubhouse.
The building was a converted auto-repair shop on the outskirts of town.