Wreaths hung along the reception desk, a fiber-optic tree cycled through colors in one corner, and paper snowflakes dangled from the ceiling tiles on fishing line. A nurse at the front desk wore reindeer antlers and a smile.
"Santa!"
A small body launched itself across the lobby, colliding with my legs hard enough to make me stagger. Ryan—still in his button-down from the show, clip-on tie askew, face incandescent with joy.
"You came! You actually came!" His words tumbled over each other. "I told Marcus you would, I told him Santa always keeps his promises—"
"Ryan." Charice crossed from the elevator bay, still in her costume from the show. "Let Santa breathe."
I knelt carefully, balancing the crates of toys. "Hey, buddy. I told you I'd come, didn't I?"
"You promised."
"And Santa keeps his promises."
Ryan's attention swung to Ben. "Mr. Blitzen! Did you bring the toys? The special ones?"
"Every single one." Ben shifted his crate so Ryan could see inside. "Want to help us deliver them?"
Ryan rose on his toes. "Like an elf?"
"Exactly like an elf."
Charice moved to my side, her hand brushing my arm. Up close, I saw the strain beneath her stage makeup—the long hours, the longer worries. Still, her eyes were bright.
"Marcus has been asking about Santa every ten minutes since we got him back from the show. The nurses finally stoppedanswering and just started pointing at the clock." She smiled. "He's in room 412. I'll take you up."
She led us toward the elevator, and Ryan danced ahead, pressing the button three times in quick succession. The doors opened to reveal a tired-looking orderly holding a small potted poinsettia.
"Merry Christmas," he said as we traded places.
"Merry Christmas," we answered in a ragged chorus.
The pediatric ward had dressed itself for the holiday. Garlands wound along the hallway railings, and someone had taped paper stars to every door. A menorah glowed on the nurses' station counter beside a small nativity scene.
Through half-open doors, I glimpsed sleeping children, monitoring equipment, and parents curled in uncomfortable chairs. Also signs of the holiday: a stuffed Santa propped in a window, a child's stocking hung from an IV stand, and cheerful lights blinking in defiance of the clinical surroundings.
The toys in my crate pulsed gently against my chest.
Almost there.
The room announced itself with a construction paper sign—Marcus'sRoomin wobbly letters, surrounded by crayon dragons breathing fire. Someone had added a Santa hat to one of them—perhaps Ryan's effort.
Charice paused with her hand on the door. "He's tired from the show, but he refused to sleep. Said he had to stay awake until Santa came."
She pushed the door open.
Marcus sat propped against pillows. The illness had whittled him down. A port-a-cath peeked from his collar, and an oxygen cannula looped behind his ears.
He opened his eyes wider.
"Santa?"
I crossed the room without hesitation and crouched beside the bed. Put myself at his eye level.
"Hey there, Marcus. I got your friend's letter."
Marcus looked at Ryan, who had crowded in beside Ben. Then back to me.
