The biker looked suddenly uncertain.
Then Elena burst into laughter.
The man repeated the sound.
She laughed harder.
Her father covered his face.
"Oh, no."
The rider made another ridiculous noise.
Elena squealed.
Rachel quickly checked that the excitement remained comfortable for her.
Then she smiled.
The child was laughing.
Really laughing.
Her mother began crying while laughing along.
For weeks, the family had lived with uncertainty.
Every telephone call could carry news.
Every change in Elena's condition required attention.
They had learned to speak carefully, sleep lightly, and protect themselves from expectations.
For a few minutes, the room contained something else.
A giraffe.
An enormous tattooed Santa.
And a sound so ridiculous that even Rachel could not stop laughing.
When Elena became tired, the biker stopped immediately.
He lowered his voice.
"Think the giraffe needs a nap?"
She nodded.
"Yes."
He placed one finger against his lips.
"Then we'd better be quiet."
Elena hugged the toy.
Her eyes closed.
The rider stood slowly.
Her mother touched his arm.
"Thank you."
He smiled.
"Glad she liked him."
The woman looked toward her sleeping daughter.
"It's been a long time since she laughed like that."
The man's smile softened.
He nodded.
Then quietly left the room.
In the hallway, he looked toward another biker.
"Best giraffe impression of my life."
The second man laughed.
"Only one you've ever done."
The first rider wiped his eyes.
"Still counts."
David's visit was the hardest in a different way.
When the rider entered carrying the model motorcycle, the eleven-year-old turned toward the window.
"I don't want Santa."
The biker stopped.
Rachel stood beside him.
She looked toward David.
"That's okay."
The rider nodded.
"No problem, buddy."
He began stepping backward.
Then noticed a motorcycle magazine resting beside the bed.
He hesitated.
"Nice bike on that cover."
David did not turn.
The rider glanced at Rachel.
She gave a small nod, allowing the conversation but ready to end it if David preferred.
The man pointed toward the magazine.
"That's a good machine."
David looked over.
"You know motorcycles?"
The biker smiled faintly.
"A little."
"What kind do you ride?"
The rider told him.
David turned more fully.
"Really?"
"Really."
The boy looked at the man's leather vest.
"Have you ever crashed?"
The biker became quiet.
Then nodded.
"Yes."
David studied him.
"Bad?"
"Pretty bad."
The rider slowly lifted the hem of one trouser leg just enough to show the outline of a brace he wore beneath it.
He did not make a performance of the injury.
He simply answered honestly.
"Took me a long time to learn how to get around after that."
David stared.
"Do you still ride?"
"Yes."
"How?"