That request was honored.
The riders did not know the children's full medical histories.
They did not need to.
The hospital provided only the information families agreed could be shared.
For the next two weeks, the Iron Hearts clubhouse became a Christmas workshop.
Motorcycle parts were pushed aside to make room for wrapping paper.
Stacks of leather catalogs disappeared beneath cardboard boxes.
Men who had spent decades fixing engines argued over the best kind of ribbon.
One biker drove thirty miles to find a particular stuffed animal.
Another spent an evening assembling a complicated model kit so he could be sure all its pieces were present.
Several club members donated money beyond what they could comfortably spare.
Local businesses heard about the project and offered help.
A bookstore supplied children's books at a discount.
A craft shop donated wrapping paper.
A small bakery prepared holiday treats for the hospital staff, subject to the hospital's food rules.
And a woman whose husband belonged to the club volunteered to organize gift labels after discovering that the men had nearly mixed up three different children with similar wish lists.
By December 20, every participating child's approved gift was ready.
Jim inspected the boxes himself.
He checked the labels.
Reviewed the restrictions.
And asked three times whether anyone had been overlooked.
One rider laughed.
"Jim, we've checked this list six times."
Jim looked at him.
"Then seven won't hurt."
The man shook his head.
But he checked again.
Near the bottom of the list was a five-year-old boy named Christopher.
His preferences were simple.
He liked teddy bears.
Soft music.
And stories about friendly animals.
The family had indicated that he might not be well enough for visitors or to open a gift.
Jim stared at the entry longer than the others.
Then he quietly placed a small teddy bear beside the green gift bag assigned to the child.
The bear was brown, with soft ears and a tiny red scarf.
Jim touched one ear gently.
For a moment, he remembered another little stuffed animal.
Another hospital room.
Another Christmas Eve.
He closed his eyes.
Then placed the bear carefully inside the bag.
No one in the room asked why his hands were trembling.
The photograph was kept in a drawer at Big Jim's house.
He had once displayed it on the mantelpiece, but after his daughter's death he found himself unable to walk past it without stopping.
For a while, he turned the frame toward the wall.
Then he moved it into his bedroom.
Later, when he discovered he was avoiding that room entirely, he placed the photograph inside the drawer of a little wooden cabinet beside his bed.