Child Services said people like me shouldn’t adopt.
They said bikers weren’t the right fit.
They said that while standing in a motorcycle dealership parking lot—after a foster family dumped a nine-year-old autistic boy there and drove away with nothing but a note taped to his jacket.
I was buying brake pads when I noticed him.
Lucas stood alone near the curb in dinosaur pajamas, rocking back and forth, clutching a frayed stuffed dragon. Adults walked past him like he was part of the scenery. The dealership manager was already calling police to “handle the situation.”
Then the kid walked straight to my Harley.
He placed his hand on the gas tank, slow and careful, like he was touching something alive.
“Pretty bike,” he said softly. “Looks like dragon wings.”
I’m Big Mike. Sixty-four. Bearded. Tattooed. Riding motorcycles longer than most people have been alive. And in that moment, I knew this kid wasn’t lost—he was looking for safety.
The note said his foster parents “couldn’t manage him anymore.” Claimed he was violent. Nonverbal. Too difficult.
None of that matched the boy in front of me.
He was scared. And somehow, my bike was keeping him calm.
When Child Services arrived, Lucas panicked. Screaming. Rocking. Gripping the handlebars like they were the only thing holding him together. I knelt beside him and breathed slowly until he matched my rhythm.
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