“Santa.”
Rebecca smiled.
“Ray.”
“Same person.”
They drove.
On Christmas Eve, snow fell again.
Ray stood outside the same gas station.
This time he actually wore the suit.
Red coat.
Red pants.
Boots.
Hat.
White beard already provided by nature.
Daisy climbed out of the car.
She stared.
Then shouted:
“I KNEW IT!”
Ray opened his arms.
She ran.
Everyone laughed.
Martin still worked at the gas station.
He came outside with hot chocolate.
A framed photograph hung beside the register now.
Not of the assault.
Ray had forbidden that.
It showed hundreds of motorcycles lined outside the gas station the following morning.
Underneath was a small plaque:
THE DAISY RUN
Daisy read it.
“That's my name.”
Ray nodded.
“You approved it.”
“I was seven.”
“You signed a napkin.”
“That isn't legal.”
Ray stared.
“Rebecca has been teaching you dangerous things.”
The Daisy Run had become an annual event.
Its mission was simple.
Emergency supplies for children entering foster care, shelters, or temporary housing.
Backpacks containing pajamas.
Toothbrushes.
Warm socks.
Flashlight.
Notebook.
Snack.
And one stuffed animal.
Not donated junk.
New.
Chosen carefully.
Ray had insisted.
“No child gets somebody else's garbage on the worst night of their life.”
The organization also funded overnight emergency foster placements so fewer children had to sleep inside offices or group intake rooms.
Teresa helped design the program.
Martha helped recruit families.
Rebecca handled paperwork remotely.
Ray contributed money.
The bikers contributed everything else.
Storage.
Delivery.
Fundraising.
Transportation.
Noise.
Mostly noise.
The first year, they served eighty-one children.
Second year, one hundred sixty-three.
By Daisy's tenth birthday, four neighboring counties had copied the program.
Daisy remained mostly unaware of numbers.
She cared about the stuffed animals.
She personally tested them for “hug quality.”
Ray pretended there was a formal certification process.
At twelve, Daisy stopped believing Ray was Santa.
Or claimed she had.
Ray suspected she had figured it out years earlier and kept the joke alive for him.
She still called him Santa sometimes.
Usually when asking for something.
“Santa, I need twenty dollars.”
“No.”
“Santa…”
“Absolutely not.”
At thirteen:
“Santa, everybody has a phone.”
“You have a phone.”
“A better phone.”
“No.”
“You're ruining Christmas.”
“In April?”
“Yes.”
At fourteen, she asked to ride on his motorcycle.
Ray said no.
Daisy stared.
“You let random hospital kids sit on it.”
“Sit.”
“Not ride.”
“I saved your life.”
“You jumped on my chest.”
“Same thing.”
“No.”
“Santa.”
“No.”
Rebecca supported him.