Twelve bikers formed a protective shield around my screaming autistic son in the middle of a busy highway, while everyone else around us just pulled out their phones to film.
My eight-year-old Max had bolted from our car during a meltdown, running straight into traffic on I-95. Within seconds, cars had stopped—not to help, but to capture the “crazy kid” having a breakdown in the fast lane. Horns blared, people shouted, and I was sobbing, desperate to reach him.
“Control your brat! Get that retard off the road!” strangers yelled.
Then the rumble came. Twelve Harleys, weaving through the halted traffic, cutting across three lanes to form a circle around my son. The riders dismounted with the calm precision of a SWAT team in leather.