I cleared my throat. "That—that would be fine, Adam."
He hesitated again, then blurted, "It isn't right, you know. Fairyland, I mean. It isn't fair to kids not to let them grow up. And it isn't the answer to all the things you told me are wrong about the world."
"I know, Adam. I know."
"Sooner or later they'll realize that, on Earth."
"I think they already have," I said.
He scratched his chin under the beard. "Then some day they might decide to close Fairyland, mightn't they? So I was thinking, maybe each Christmastime you and Mommy could choose two or three of the older Kids and sort of get them ready for the world. The way you did me. Then I could take them back to Earth with me, and help them get started. You could tell the other Kids they went to live with Santa Claus."
I stared at him in amazement. This—this Kid, I couldn't think of him any other way—yesterday had been little more than a juvenile delinquent. Today he was a mature, thinking adult who in a few sparse words had provided the answer to the question that had been gnawing at me for two weeks: what was to become of Fairyland?
I felt the way a father must feel when he suddenly realizes his boy has grown up, and has turned out all right. Kind of proud, and more than a little grateful.
I gripped Adam's hand. "Son, you've got yourself a deal! Come along and let's surprise the Kids!"
We went down the stairs arm in arm, and I called to Ruth: "Hey, Mommy! Guess what. There really is a Santa Claus, after all!"