The phone call came in panic. The funeral home director was desperate: nobody was coming for the boy. Nine years old. Burned in a house fire. Abandoned by family, the system, everyone. He’d been lying there for four days, unclaimed.
I’m William “Bear” Harrison, president of the Iron Brotherhood MC. I’d never met this child. I didn’t even know his name.
“Sir, why call a motorcycle club about a child’s funeral?” I asked.
“Because we’ve called everyone else,” the director said. “Child services, churches, charities—nobody will come.”
Marcus James Williams. Nine years old. Mother lost to addiction. Father unknown. A life spent moving through foster homes. His last placement? Burned to the ground. Left behind. Alone.
I couldn’t let that happen.
I made calls. Club presidents, old riding buddies, brothers across states. By midnight, forty-seven bikers had committed. By morning, that number had doubled. Men I’d never met were asking for the address, asking what they could bring. Nobody knew Marcus—but everyone wanted to show up.
At 2 PM, over a hundred motorcycles lined the street. Leather vests, patches from across the country. Young faces, gray beards, every generation represented. All for a boy none had met.
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