Up close, he was enormous. His forearms looked almost as thick as the little girl's legs, and his hands were covered in faded tattoos. Across the knuckles of his right hand were two short words: GO ON.
Ellie stared at them.
"What does that say?"
Doc looked down.
"Go on."
She smiled.
"Go on where?"
The question caught him off guard.
He gave a small laugh.
"Wherever life takes you, I guess."
Ellie considered that answer seriously.
Then she pointed toward the Harley.
"Does your motorcycle go really fast?"
"Sometimes."
"Does it make that loud noise?"
"It sure does."
"Can I hear it?"
Doc smiled.
"If your mom says it's okay, we can arrange that."
Ellie's face lit up.
Then the smile faded slightly.
"But could I ride it?"
The question hung between them.
Doc could see Rachel standing behind the wheelchair, her hands gripping the push handles so tightly that her knuckles had turned white. Mark was watching with an expression that mixed suspicion, fear, and the desperate hope of a father who wanted someone to make his daughter happy.
Doc looked directly into Ellie's bright blue eyes.
"Sweetheart," he said gently, "I'm gonna find a way to give you a ride on a Harley, as long as your mama and the people looking after your health say it's safe."
Ellie's mouth fell open.
"Really?"
Doc nodded.
"I'll do everything I can."
For a moment, the little girl looked as though someone had handed her the entire world.
Then Rachel spoke.
"Sir, I don't think you understand."
Doc turned toward her.
Rachel swallowed.
"Ellie can't sit safely on the back of a motorcycle."
The little girl's smile began to disappear.
Rachel forced herself to continue.
"She has a serious medical condition. She can't hold herself upright for very long, and even small movements can be difficult for her. A fall could be dangerous."
Doc listened without interrupting.
"We've already talked to her doctors about activities like that," Rachel said. "They don't think an ordinary motorcycle ride would be safe."
Ellie lowered her eyes.
"It's okay, Mama."
Rachel looked down at her.
The little girl had learned to say those words with a calmness that broke her mother's heart. She said them when she couldn't climb the playground equipment, when a birthday party was held somewhere inaccessible, and when the other children ran toward an activity she couldn't join.