My ten-year-old son Jackson was fighting for his life on the side of a busy highway — and nobody stopped to help. Instead, people pulled out their phones to record his seizure, as if my child’s suffering was entertainment.
Cars honked, drivers yelled, and one man even threatened to run us over if we didn’t move. I was begging for someone, anyone, to call 911 when I heard it — the low, thunderous rumble of motorcycles.
Seventeen bikers appeared out of nowhere, pulling over in perfect formation. Without hesitation, they surrounded us, their bikes forming a barrier between Jackson and traffic. The lead rider — a tall man with a white beard and a patch that read “Bear” — jumped off his Harley and knelt beside my son.
“I’m a paramedic,” he said calmly. “How long has he been seizing?”
“Three, maybe four minutes!” I cried. “I called 911, but they said it could take fifteen!”
Bear nodded and took charge, checking Jackson’s pulse, clearing his airway, and keeping him safe. The other bikers — men and women of all ages — stood in a protective circle, blocking traffic while angry drivers honked and shouted. But they didn’t move.
Continue reading on next page…