The mother looked at Christopher.
Then nodded again.
"Please."
Jim entered carefully.
Rachel remained close.
The room was small.
There was barely enough space for the bed, medical equipment, the mother's chair, and a narrow visitor's chair near the window.
Jim placed the green bag beside the visitor's chair.
He looked toward Christopher.
For a long moment, he said nothing.
The boy's small face rested against the white pillow.
A soft blanket covered him.
His mother had placed a tiny Christmas ornament near the window.
Jim noticed the ornament.
A little wooden bear.
He looked at the green bag.
Then at the mother.
"I heard he likes teddy bears."
She smiled weakly.
"He does."
Jim carefully removed the brown bear with the red scarf.
He looked toward Rachel.
"Is there somewhere safe I can put it?"
Rachel nodded toward a clear spot on the bedside shelf.
Jim placed the toy there, where the mother could reach it without disturbing the bed or equipment.
Then he lowered himself into the visitor's chair.
The chair creaked beneath his weight.
He looked embarrassed.
Christopher's mother almost smiled.
Jim leaned forward slightly.
"Hey, buddy."
His voice was barely above a whisper.
"Santa came to see you."
Christopher did not move.
Jim waited.
Then looked toward the mother.
"What's his favorite thing about Christmas?"
She thought for a moment.
"Music."
Jim nodded.
"Music?"
"He used to sing all the time."
A small smile appeared.
"He made up songs about everything."
Jim looked toward the bed.
"Everything?"
She nodded.
"Breakfast. His toys. The dog. Sometimes he'd sing about his socks because he didn't want to put them on."
Jim chuckled softly.
"Sounds like a good songwriter."
The mother's smile grew.
"He was."
Then her expression changed.
She looked at Christopher.
"He hasn't sung in a long time."
Jim's smile faded.
For several moments, he studied the little boy.
Then asked quietly, "Would it bother him if somebody hummed?"
The mother shook her head.
"No."
Jim looked toward Rachel.
She nodded, indicating that a soft, brief song would be acceptable.
The enormous biker leaned back.
Then began humming.
The melody was familiar.
A simple Christmas tune.
Quiet.
Almost hesitant.
His deep voice made it sound more like a lullaby than a holiday song.
Christopher did not move.
But his mother closed her eyes.
For several seconds, she listened.
Then tears began slipping down her face.
Jim continued.
He did not sing loudly.
Did not try to entertain the room.
He simply hummed.
A sound gentle enough to fit beside the quiet medical equipment.
A sound that reminded the mother of ordinary Christmas evenings when Christopher lay on the couch beneath a blanket, listening to music while she folded laundry.