One rider asked whether a four-year-old would prefer a stuffed giraffe or a musical toy.
Another wondered whether a nine-year-old interested in superheroes would enjoy a comic book.
A third asked how to find a model motorcycle with parts suitable for an older child.
Jim listened.
Then smiled faintly.
For the first time in many years, Christmas planning did not feel like an obligation he was trying to survive.
It felt like something he wanted to be part of.
But as the men began discussing their assignments, his gaze drifted toward a small framed photograph beside the clubhouse office.
A little girl.
Six years old.
Smiling in a hospital bed.
A red ribbon in her hair.
Jim stared at the photograph for a moment.
Then looked away.
One of the older riders noticed.
He had known Jim for more than two decades.
He quietly approached.
"You all right, brother?"
Jim nodded.
"Fine."
The rider studied him.
"Sure?"
Jim looked toward the room full of men discussing children's gifts.
Then swallowed.
"Just thinking."
"About her?"
Jim did not answer immediately.
Finally, he nodded.
"Always am this time of year."
The older rider placed one hand against his shoulder.
"You don't have to do this."
Jim looked at him.
Then toward the lists.
"Yes."
He took a breath.
"I think I do."
The first child assigned to the riders' gift list was a seven-year-old girl named Lily.
Lily had been fighting leukemia for nearly two years.
Before her illness, she loved riding ponies at a small stable outside town.
She had a collection of plastic horse figurines arranged along her bedroom windowsill.
Her favorite was a chestnut mare she named Cinnamon.
When treatments made her too tired to play outside, she asked her mother to bring photographs of horses so she could imagine riding again.
The previous Christmas, Lily had still been strong enough to open her presents at home.
This Christmas, her doctors had recommended continued hospitalization.
Lily understood more than the adults realized.
She knew what chemotherapy was.
She knew why some days made her nauseated.
She knew the nurses became especially careful when her immune system was low.
But what frightened her most was not the medical language.
It was the possibility that other children would forget she existed.
Her friends still attended school.
They played together.
Celebrated birthdays.
Talked about snow days.
Lily received cards at first.
Then fewer.
Then only occasional messages.
She did not resent her friends.
She simply missed belonging to their ordinary world.
One afternoon, Rachel entered Lily's room and found her staring at a drawing of a horse.
"That's a beautiful picture."
Lily shrugged.
"It's Cinnamon."
Rachel sat beside her.