“Please, somebody help him. Something’s wrong and nobody can figure out what. He hasn’t slept in three days. Please.”
Dale pulled the IV from his arm.
“That boy needs help,” Dale said, standing on shaky legs. “And I got two hands that still work.”
Dale found them in the pediatric room three doors down. A young couple, maybe late twenties, looked completely destroyed.
The mother, Jessica, was trying to hold a toddler—looked about two or three years old—who was screaming so hard he was turning purple, fighting against her arms, arching his back. The father, Marcus, had his head in his hands.
Two nurses stood nearby, looking helpless. They’d tried everything. Medication. Distraction. Different rooms. Nothing worked.
The little boy had a bandage on his arm where an IV had been. His hospital gown was twisted from thrashing. His face was red and soaked with tears.
Dale stood in the doorway, this big bearded biker in a leather vest, bald from chemo, an IV port visible in his arm. He looked like death warmed over, but his eyes were soft.
“Ma’am,” Dale said quietly. “I know I look scary. But I raised four kids and helped with eleven grandkids. Would you let me try?”
Jessica looked at this stranger—this sick, scary-looking biker—and something in his face made her nod.Continue reading…
