Reaching for him.
He felt the photograph beneath his vest.
For a moment, he wanted to leave.
The old hallway seemed to rise around him again.
The sounds.
The smells.
The memories.
His breathing changed.
Rachel noticed.
She approached quietly.
"Jim?"
He looked up.
She leaned closer.
"Would you like a moment outside?"
For several seconds, he could not answer.
Then he shook his head.
"No."
His voice was rough.
He looked toward Christopher's mother.
"Not yet."
Rachel studied him.
Then nodded.
She remained nearby.
Jim took a slow breath.
He began humming again.
This time, his voice trembled.
But he kept going.
At nine o'clock, the child's mother asked Jim whether he wanted to rest.
He shook his head.
"I'm fine."
She looked toward the hallway.
"Your friends have been here a long time."
Jim smiled.
"They're stubborn."
For the first time in hours, she laughed.
He continued.
"Some of them couldn't carry a tune if you put it in a saddlebag."
She laughed harder.
The sound surprised her.
She quickly looked toward Christopher.
Then covered her mouth.
"I'm sorry."
Jim frowned gently.
"For what?"
She looked down.
"Laughing."
He studied her.
Then shook his head.
"Don't apologize for laughing."
Her eyes filled.
"He's dying."
Jim looked toward the bed.
He nodded.
"I know."
She swallowed.
"And I'm laughing."
He leaned forward.
"Ma'am, loving him doesn't mean you have to stop being human."
For several moments, she stared at him.
Then tears began falling.
Jim continued quietly.
"You can laugh because something's funny. You can cry because it hurts. You can be frightened and tired and angry."
He looked toward Christopher.
"And none of that changes how much you love your boy."
The mother covered her face.
Jim said nothing more.
He let the words settle.
Then he reached toward the little paper cup of water on the table.
"Would you like some water?"
She nodded.
He handed it to her.
She drank slowly.
Then looked at him.
"Do you have children?"
Jim went completely still.
The question was ordinary.
A simple attempt at conversation.
But it seemed to strike him harder than anything else that evening.
For a moment, Rachel thought he might not answer.
Then he nodded.
"A daughter."
The mother gave a faint smile.
"How old is she?"
Jim looked toward the window.
Snow drifted past the glass.
He swallowed.
"She would be twenty-five now."
The mother stopped moving.
Something in his voice made the meaning clear before he explained it.
Jim reached inside his vest.
His fingers closed around the worn photograph.
He drew it out carefully.
Then held it toward her.
The image showed a little girl sitting in a hospital bed.