I truly didn’t expect my son to smile that day.
He’d just finished his third round of chemo, and this one had hit harder than the rest. He had no appetite, no energy, and it had been nearly a week since I’d heard him laugh.
Then Officer Kyle showed up.
He was only supposed to make a quick stop—dropping off donated toys for the pediatric wing. But when he spotted my son wearing his favorite Superman shirt and noticed the toy bow and arrow on the tray, he didn’t miss a beat.
He crouched beside the bed and asked, “Think you can hit a moving target?”
My son’s face lit up instantly.
Moments later, Kyle was walking around the room with suction cup arrows stuck to his forehead, putting on the performance of a lifetime. He staggered, groaned, spun in circles—like a cartoon villain taken down by a tiny hero.
My son was roaring with laughter. Pointing. Gasping for air. “Got him! I GOT HIM!” he shouted.
It was the kind of joy I hadn’t seen—or heard—in months.
When Kyle quietly stepped into the hallway afterward, I followed him…
