Because of the grandfather.
Because of the twelve names.
Because of the stupid joke she had made before knowing anything.
And because somewhere between the princess aisle and the parking lot, the giant biker who looked least likely to belong in a toy store had become the gentlest person she had met all year.
The next morning, the Cashier thought the story was over.
She was wrong.
At 10:06 a.m., the store phone rang.
The Supervisor answered.
Then waved frantically.
“For you.”
The Cashier frowned.
“Who?”
“Hospital.”
The Cashier took the receiver.
“Hello?”
A woman introduced herself as a pediatric nurse.
The Cashier immediately became nervous.
“Is everything okay?”
“Yes.”
The nurse laughed softly.
“More than okay.”
She explained.
The bikers had arrived just before ten.
Hospital security already knew them.
Apparently the group had visited many times before.
They carried the twelve dolls upstairs.
One bag at a time.
The children were still awake because somebody had warned the nurses there might be a special delivery.
The Cashier closed her eyes.
The nurse continued.
Every girl received a doll.
Every girl received a crown.
The youngest immediately put hers on.
Another refused to open her doll because she wanted to save it for Christmas morning.
One girl slept with the box beside her pillow.
Then the nurse became quiet.
“There was one thing.”
The Cashier tightened her grip on the phone.
“What?”
“We only had eleven girls.”
The Cashier frowned.
“But there were twelve names.”
“Yes.”
“One little girl was discharged yesterday.”
“Oh.”
The nurse continued.
“The grandfather insisted the twelfth doll still belonged to her.”
Of course he did.
He obtained the family's address through the parents, with permission.
After leaving the hospital, three bikers drove another forty minutes.
They delivered the final doll to the girl's home after eleven at night.
The child answered the door wearing pajamas.
Her mother cried.
The Biker said only:
“A princess asked me to bring this.”
Then he left.
The Cashier wiped her eyes.
The nurse laughed gently.
“You okay?”
“No.”
“Me neither.”
Before hanging up, the nurse added:
“There's something else you should know.”
The Cashier waited.
“The little girl who died had been planning this for months.”
The Cashier frowned.
“What?”
“She had been saving allowance.”
“Birthday money.”
“Coins.”
“Everything.”
The nurse explained.
Her grandfather had thought the money was for her own princess doll.
That was why he originally promised to take her shopping once she felt better.
But inside a decorated shoebox beneath her hospital bed, the nurses later discovered envelopes.
Twelve envelopes.
One for each friend.
Tiny amounts.
Three dollars.
Five dollars.
Coins.
One envelope contained only seventy-eight cents.
The Cashier pressed a hand against her mouth.
The little girl had known she could never afford twelve dolls.
That had not stopped her.
She was saving anyway.
The Biker found the box after she died.
That was why he entered the toy store that night.
Not because he suddenly thought of the gifts.
Because he was finishing a plan she had already started.
The Cashier cried again.
The nurse did too.
Weeks passed.
The Cashier told almost nobody.
It did not feel like her story to spread around.
She told her husband.
Her mother.
That was all.
Then one Saturday afternoon, the motorcycles returned.