A Thursday in the Oncology Ward
The Iron Wolves MC showed up like they always did, taking turns to sit with their brother during his Thursday infusions. Dale “Ironside” Murphy, sixty-eight, had been at this for nine months—skin pale, beard trimmed, leather vest over a hospital gown, and an IV port taped to his arm.
That day, the ward wasn’t quiet. A small child’s cries rolled down the corridor—sharp, raw, the kind that makes your chest hurt just hearing it. Snake, sitting beside Dale, tried to focus on the drip. Dale’s eyelids fluttered open.
“That kid’s hurting,” Dale murmured, voice thin.
“Not our business, brother,” Snake said softly. “Let’s get you through this.”
But the crying became an hour of screaming. Nurses hurried by. A doctor hustled past. Nothing changed. Then a mother’s voice broke, thick with desperation: “Please, somebody help him. He hasn’t slept in three days. Please.”
Dale reached up and carefully slid the IV from his arm.
“Brother, what are you doing?” Snake shot to his feet. “You’ve got another hour—”
“That boy needs help,” Dale said. “And I’ve still got two good hands.”
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