The Biker Who Hit My Son—and Then Saved Him
It’s been forty-seven days since the accident. Forty-seven days since my twelve-year-old son, Jake, was hit by a motorcycle while chasing a basketball across the street.
Forty-seven days in a coma.
And every single one of those days, the man who hit him—the man who changed our lives forever—has been sitting at his bedside.
The Day Everything Changed
The police told us the rider stayed at the scene. That he called 911. That he gave Jake CPR until the ambulance came.
They said he wasn’t drunk, wasn’t speeding. They said Jake ran into the road too fast.
But none of that mattered. My boy was lying in a hospital bed, motionless. And someone had to be to blame.
When I first saw the man—gray beard, leather vest covered in patches—he was sitting beside Jake’s bed, reading Harry Potter.
“Who the hell are you?” I shouted.
He stood slowly. “My name’s Marcus,” he said. “I’m the one who hit your son.”
I lost it. I lunged at him before security pulled me away. The nurse told him to leave and never come back.
But the next day, he came back anyway.
A Stranger Who Refused to Leave
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