Twelve bikers formed a human wall around my screaming autistic son in the middle of I-95 while the rest of the world stood there filming.
It started in seconds.
My eight-year-old Max had been doing fine most of the drive. We were on our way to Boston for one of his therapy appointments — a long trip we made every month. He had his headphones, his tablet, his weighted blanket. The things that usually kept him calm.
But autism doesn’t warn you before a meltdown.
A motorcycle backfired beside our car.
The sound shattered everything.
Before I could even pull over, Max was already in panic. He ripped off his headphones, clawed at the door handle, and before I realized what he was doing, the door opened.
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