Big Jim reached into the bag and pulled out a giant stuffed horse, brown with a white star on its forehead. Then a horse coloring book. Horse figurines. A book about learning to ride horses.
“When you get out of here,” Big Jim said, “I know a lady who has a ranch. Real horses. She said when you’re feeling better, she’d love to teach you to ride. Would you like that?”
“Really? Real horses?”
“Real horses. I promise.”
Lily threw her arms around Big Jim’s neck. This massive, tattooed biker in a Santa suit, holding a crying seven-year-old cancer patient like she was made of glass.
I had to leave the room. I couldn’t let Lily see me crying.
We went room to room for the next four hours.
Marcus, age nine, recovering from a bone marrow transplant. He loved superheroes. The bikers brought him a complete Marvel action figure collection, a Captain America shield, and a handwritten note that said, “You’re the real superhero, buddy. Keep fighting.”
Elena, age four, waiting for a heart transplant. She loved princesses. They brought her a Cinderella dress, glass slippers, and a tiara. One of the bikers—a huge man named Tiny—got down on one knee and asked her to dance. She stood on his boots while he waltzed her around the room. Her monitor beeped faster. The nurses got worried. But Elena was laughing so hard she couldn’t breathe.
“Let her have this,” I told the concerned nurse. “This is the best medicine she’ll get all year.”
“My buddy Steve lost his legs in Afghanistan,” one biker told David. “He runs marathons now. On blades. You’re gonna do amazing things, kid. This is just the beginning.”
David didn’t cry. He’d been too angry to cry since the accident. But that night, his mother told me later, he cried for the first time. Hopeful tears.
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