"I used to ride my bicycle every day."
Rachel nodded.
"I know."
"Now I don't know what I can do."
She leaned slightly closer.
"You don't have to figure out your entire future tonight."
He wiped his face quickly.
Rachel continued.
"There may be activities you can return to in different ways. Your rehabilitation team can help you explore them when you're ready."
David looked toward her.
"But I get to be mad?"
Rachel smiled gently.
"Yes."
He nodded.
Then looked away.
For several minutes, they sat quietly.
When Rachel rose to leave, David spoke.
"Nurse Rachel?"
She turned.
"Yes?"
"Do you think Santa would bring a motorcycle if somebody asked?"
She smiled.
"A real one?"
He looked embarrassed.
"A little one."
Rachel nodded.
"I think that's a possibility."
David gave the faintest smile.
It was not a miracle.
It did not change his loss.
But it was the first time that day he had spoken about something he still wanted.
And Rachel considered that a beginning.
By four o'clock, the children's wing had grown unusually quiet.
Some children were sleeping.
Others watched holiday movies.
Parents made telephone calls to relatives who could not visit.
Nurses moved between rooms carrying medications, checking monitors, and answering questions that had little to do with Christmas.
Rachel entered Christopher's room shortly after four thirty.
His mother sat beside the bed.
She had been wearing the same gray cardigan for three days.
Her hair was loosely tied back.
Dark circles shadowed her eyes.
A small cup of tea rested untouched on the bedside table.
Christopher lay beneath a pale-blue blanket.
He had turned five only a few months earlier.
Before his illness, he was a cheerful child who liked dinosaurs, teddy bears, and singing songs loudly enough to make his mother laugh.
His favorite game was pretending to be a bear.
He would raise his hands, curl his fingers, and growl at anyone who entered the living room.
Then he would laugh so hard that he could barely finish the growl.
His mother had a recording of him doing it.
She had watched that recording hundreds of times during his illness.
Sometimes because it made her smile.
Sometimes because she was terrified she might one day forget the exact sound of his voice.
Christopher had terminal brain cancer.
His medical team had explained that treatment could no longer stop the disease.
The focus had shifted toward comfort, relief of distressing symptoms, and helping him spend his remaining time with the people who loved him.
His mother understood.
At least intellectually.
But understanding that her son was dying did not make the reality easier to live inside.