Flat on his back.
Hands behind his head.
Like it was the most normal thing in the world.
Max kept rocking and screaming.
The biker didn’t touch him.
Didn’t crowd him.
He just spoke calmly.
“Hey little man,” he said softly. “You ever hear how a motorcycle engine works?”
Max’s rocking slowed a little.
The biker kept talking, still lying there.
“Two cylinders. Boom-boom. Boom-boom. A steady rhythm.”
Another biker sat down on the road a few feet away.
Then another.
Within minutes, several of them were sitting or lying on the asphalt, talking quietly about engines, about patterns, about the sounds bikes make when they idle.
They never tried to force Max to stop.
They never tried to grab him.
They just matched his world with something predictable.
And Max loves patterns.
Little by little, his breathing slowed.
The screaming turned into quiet rocking.
Continued on the next page
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