She still woke each morning wanting a different answer.
Still listened for a doctor to say something had changed.
Still imagined him running through the backyard next spring.
And still caught herself looking at toys in shop windows before remembering that the future she was imagining might never arrive.
Rachel checked Christopher's comfort and spoke softly with his mother.
"How has he been?"
The woman looked toward the bed.
"Quiet."
Rachel nodded.
"Has he seemed uncomfortable?"
She shook her head.
"Not much."
The nurse gently adjusted the blanket.
Christopher did not open his eyes.
His breathing remained shallow.
The mother watched him.
Then whispered, "Do you think he knows it's Christmas Eve?"
Rachel sat beside her.
"I can't know exactly what he's aware of."
The woman nodded.
Rachel continued.
"But familiar voices and gentle sounds may still be comforting. You can talk to him if you'd like."
The mother's eyes filled.
"I've been telling him about Christmas morning."
Rachel listened.
"About the tree at home. The lights. The pancakes I always make."
Her voice broke.
"About how he used to wake me up before sunrise."
She reached for her son's hand.
"He'd climb into my bed and whisper that Santa might have forgotten our house."
A weak laugh escaped her.
"Every year."
Rachel smiled sadly.
The woman looked down.
"I kept telling him Santa would come."
A tear fell onto the blanket.
"And now I don't know if he'll ever know."
Rachel placed one hand gently over hers.
For several moments, neither spoke.
Then Rachel asked, "Would you like the holiday visitors to come by later?"
The mother looked up.
"The bikers?"
Rachel nodded.
"They'll follow whatever you decide."
The woman hesitated.
Then looked toward Christopher.
"He loves Santa."
She swallowed.
"He used to be scared of Santa's beard, but last year he finally sat on his lap."
Rachel smiled.
"Would you like one of them to visit?"
The mother nodded slowly.
"Just one or two. Quietly."
"Of course."
She looked toward the little Christmas tree beside the window.
Then asked, "Do they have to make him wake up?"
Rachel shook her head.
"No."
The mother exhaled.
"Good."
She stroked her son's hand.
"Then maybe Santa can just sit with him."
Rachel nodded.
"I think he can."
Across town, forty motorcycles gathered outside the Iron Hearts clubhouse just before five o'clock.
The sky had darkened.
A cold wind moved through the streets.
Several motorcycles carried strands of Christmas lights fastened safely along nonmoving parts.
Others had small wrapped packages secured behind the seats.
The riders wore black leather beneath red Santa coats, Santa hats, or festive accessories.
They looked ridiculous.
They knew it.