My ten-year-old son, Jackson, was convulsing on the hot asphalt after a sudden seizure. I screamed for help as cars honked, drivers shouted, and people pulled out their phones to record instead of assisting. One man even threatened to run us over if we didn’t move. Panic and frustration collided with helplessness—I couldn’t protect him, couldn’t call 911 fast enough, and I felt utterly alone.
Then came the roar of motorcycles. Seventeen leather-clad strangers surrounded us, forming a wall of steel and courage between Jackson and the traffic that didn’t care.
Jackson had fallen off his bike, and the seizure hit without warning. His small body shook uncontrollably, foam at the mouth, rolling dangerously close to the road. I couldn’t lift him and keep him safe at the same time. My calls for help went largely ignored.
But the bikers didn’t hesitate. The leader, a towering man named Bear wearing a paramedic vest, knelt beside Jackson. “How long has he been seizing?” he asked calmly.
“Three minutes, maybe four,” I gasped.
“Not good enough. Circle formation. Now,” Bear commanded.
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