As they walked, Rachel noticed his hands trembling.
She slowed.
"Jim?"
He looked toward her.
"Yes?"
"Are you all right?"
He nodded.
"Just old hands."
She studied him.
He smiled faintly.
"Let's go see the little fellow."
Rachel nodded.
And together, they approached the room where Christmas Eve would change the lives of everyone involved.
Christopher's mother heard the footsteps before she saw the visitors.
She had been sitting in the same chair for most of the day, leaning forward with her son's small hand resting between both of hers.
Outside the window, snow fell steadily.
A streetlight illuminated the white flakes, making them look almost weightless as they drifted past the glass.
She remembered another Christmas Eve when Christopher was three.
They had stood together beside their living room window, watching snow fall onto the backyard.
He insisted that the flakes were pieces of Santa's beard.
She told him Santa would have to be very careful if his beard were coming apart all over the neighborhood.
Christopher laughed so hard that he spilled hot chocolate on his pajamas.
She had become irritated at the mess.
Not seriously angry.
Just tired.
She remembered fetching a towel and telling him to be more careful.
For months after his diagnosis, she had returned to that memory and wished she had laughed instead.
It seemed ridiculous now.
The things parents worried about before they understood how quickly ordinary life could change.
Spilled drinks.
Unfinished homework.
Toys left on the floor.
Bedtime delays.
She would have given anything to be annoyed by those things again.
Now her son lay in a hospital bed, breathing softly while medical equipment and carefully managed medication helped keep him comfortable.
His body had grown too weak for the games he loved.
His laughter had become rare.
And the little boy who once ran through the house pretending to be a bear had spent most of the afternoon asleep.
His mother stroked his fingers.
"Christopher, sweetheart."
He did not respond.
She leaned closer.
"Some visitors are coming."
Her voice trembled.
"Remember how we talked about Santa?"
A tear slipped down her cheek.
"I think he found us."
She kissed his hand.
Then heard the soft knock.
Rachel stood in the doorway.
Beside her was the enormous biker Santa.
Christopher's mother looked up.
For a moment, she seemed startled by the man's size.
Then Jim removed his hat.
He held it respectfully against his chest.
"Ma'am?"
She nodded.
"Yes?"
"My name's Jim. Nurse Rachel said it might be all right if I came by."
His voice was so gentle that the contrast with his appearance was almost startling.