By then, several local businesses participated.
Bikers.
Teachers.
Firefighters.
Parents.
Former patients.
The twelve original dolls had become hundreds of gifts across many years.
The Biker remained involved until his knees made long motorcycle rides difficult.
Then he bought a truck.
The club teased him without mercy.
He ignored them.
One December, many years after the first night, the Cashier met him again inside the hospital lobby.
She was carrying boxes.
He was sitting in a chair.
His beard was completely white.
She smiled.
“King?”
He looked up.
For a moment he did not recognize her.
Then his eyes brightened.
“Toy lady.”
She laughed.
They hugged.
The Biker looked toward the boxes.
“How many?”
“Two hundred thirty.”
He whistled.
“Kid would’ve lost her mind.”
The Cashier smiled.
“Yes.”
They sat together.
The hospital had changed.
New lobby.
Different paint.
New technology.
But the smell was almost the same.
Hospitals always seemed to keep some part of themselves.
The Cashier looked toward him.
“Do you ever regret keeping the promise that same day?”
The Biker thought.
“No.”
“Even though it hurt?”
“Especially because it hurt.”
She waited.
He continued.
“When somebody dies, everybody tells you to rest.”
“To wait.”
“To give yourself time.”
“Sometimes they're right.”
“But that night…”
He looked toward the elevators.
“I needed somewhere to put the love.”
The Cashier went still.
The Biker smiled faintly.
“That's what those dolls were.”
“Somewhere to put it.”
The Cashier wiped her eyes.
“Still making me cry.”
“Getting soft.”
“I was soft before you.”
“Sure.”
They laughed.
A group of children passed through the lobby.
One little girl wore a paper crown.
The Biker saw her.
The Cashier saw his face change.
Not devastation anymore.
Something gentler.
Pain that had learned how to live beside memory.
The child looked toward him.
Then waved.
The Biker waved back.
She pointed at his beard and whispered something to her mother.
The mother laughed.
The Biker leaned toward the Cashier.
“What did she say?”
“She thinks you're Santa.”
He looked offended.
“I wear black.”
“Alternative Santa.”
“No.”
The little girl approached.
“Are you Santa?”
The Biker looked at her seriously.
“No.”
She seemed disappointed.
He leaned closer.
“King.”
Her eyes widened.
The Cashier laughed so loudly a nurse looked over.
The little girl looked at the Biker.
“A real king?”
He nodded.
“Retired.”
She considered.
Then removed her paper crown.
She placed it on his head.
It barely fit.
The Biker froze.