Marcus Webb, nine years old, had run away from fourteen foster homes in eighteen months. Every system labeled him “unplaceable.” Every adult told him he was broken. Yet he kept returning to one place: our motorcycle clubhouse.
The Iron Brothers MC in Riverside wasn’t a typical home. We were mostly veterans and blue-collar guys, riding Harleys on weekends, running charity events, and fixing bikes. Yet Marcus found safety here. On a leather couch, backpack for a pillow, he left a crumpled five-dollar bill with a note that said “for rent.” Third time that week.
I came in early that morning to find him there, sleeping. When he woke and saw me, he froze, ready to bolt. “I didn’t steal nothing,” he said. “I’ll leave.”
“Keep your money,” I said. “I just want to know why you keep coming here.”
His answer broke my heart: “You guys don’t yell. You don’t hit. You don’t lock the fridge. I feel safe here.”
For Marcus, a room full of leather-wearing bikers felt safer than the foster system. He remembered the toy run we did at the hospital six months ago, how we treated him with kindness, not judgment. That moment had stayed with him, and that was why he kept coming back.
Continue reading on next page…