I’ll never forget the day I found him—ten years old, alone on Rural Route 12, three miles from the nearest house. His school shirt was torn, his face red from crying. He begged me not to tell his mom. She already cries every night, he said. He didn’t want to make it worse.
I’d ridden that stretch for twenty years and never seen a child alone. But there he was, shuffling along the shoulder, head down. I pulled over, killed the engine, and approached slowly.
“Hey, buddy. You okay?” I asked softly. “You’re a long way from anywhere.”
He flinched at first, a little boy afraid of a big, bald biker in a patched vest. But his name came out eventually: Ethan. He was trying to walk four more miles home—four miles of trucks, dirt, and danger—after kids at school had bullied him, stolen his bus money, and shoved him into the dirt.
He’d been doing it for two years. Hiding bruises. Protecting his mom from worry. Carrying his pain alone.
I crouched next to him, keeping my distance but offering my presence. “Ethan,” I said, “bullies don’t stop on their own. You’re brave trying to protect your mama—but it’s not working. Let’s fix this. Together.”
Continue reading on next page…