But for the first time in a long while, Angie began making plans that extended beyond the next medical appointment.
She talked about Tucker returning to school activities when his care team considered it appropriate.
She considered taking additional hours at work.
She began discussing a weekend trip to visit relatives.
And Tucker started asking whether his hair would grow back.
I told him I'd saved him a spot in the bald-headed biker club if it didn't.
He laughed.
Then he pointed toward Ron.
“Can he join too?”
I looked at Ron's enormous beard.
“Only if he stops growing hair in the wrong direction.”
Ron threatened to throw a pillow at me.
Tucker laughed until his cheeks turned pink.
Summer arrived again.
By then, the One More Seat program had begun supporting several other families.
Some needed transportation.
Others needed assistance with temporary lodging.
A few required basic household repairs so that parents could focus on their children's care.
The nonprofit handled the financial support and family eligibility decisions, while our volunteers followed its procedures.
We were learning.
Sometimes we made mistakes.
Sometimes our plans were too ambitious.
Sometimes a family wanted less contact than we expected.
We learned to respect that.
The goal wasn't to become the center of anyone's story.
It was to make a difficult time slightly easier.
One afternoon, I visited a family whose young daughter had recently begun cancer treatment.
Her father was a mechanic.
He looked exhausted.
We stood beside his broken car while Ron examined the engine.
The father glanced toward my vest.
“Why do you people do this?”
I looked at him.
“What?”
“Spend your weekends helping strangers.”
I considered the question.
Then I smiled.
“Because somebody once asked us for help.”
He looked confused.
I reached inside my vest.
I carried a photocopy of Sarah's letter in a protective sleeve.
I showed him the final drawing.
Three figures on a motorcycle.
There is room for one more.
The mechanic studied it.
Then he looked toward the house where his daughter was resting.
His expression softened.
“That's beautiful.”
I nodded.
“Yeah.”
Ron called from the garage.
“Bear, quit talking and hand me that wrench.”
I laughed.
Then I looked toward the mechanic.
“Besides, somebody has to keep him from breaking things.”
The man smiled.
It was a tired smile.
But it was real.
By the time we finished the repairs, his car was running properly.
He offered to pay.
We declined.
Instead, I asked him to do something for another family someday if he was able.
He nodded.
“I will.”