Most of them didn’t.
Then I heard something different.
A deep rumble.
Motorcycles.
Twelve Harleys cut through the traffic and stopped around Max like a moving wall. The riders parked across the lanes, blocking cars from getting anywhere near him.
Engines off.
Boots on asphalt.
They didn’t rush him. They didn’t shout.
They just created space.
The lead biker was a huge man with a long gray beard and arms covered in old tattoos. He looked at the crowd of people holding phones and calmly told them to put the cameras away and back up.
And suddenly, they did.
The circle around my son became quiet.
For the first time since the meltdown started, the noise dropped.
Then the big biker walked slowly toward Max.
Everyone thought he was going to grab him.
Instead, he stopped a few feet away… and laid down on the asphalt.
Right there in the middle of the highway.
Continued on the next page
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