But what I saw made me falter.
The biggest biker, a mountain of a man with “SAVAGE” tattooed across his knuckles, was on his knees at Tommy’s bedside.
He had a tiny toy Harley in his hand, pushing it across the blanket while making deep engine noises.
Tommy’s dull eyes—eyes that had given up weeks ago—were suddenly glowing.
“How did you know I loved motorcycles?” Tommy whispered.
Savage reached into his vest, pulled out a phone, and turned the screen so Tommy could see.
“Your nurse Anna posted about you,” he said softly. “Said you had motorcycle magazines all over your room but no one to talk to about them. Well, little brother, now you got fifteen someones.”
I turned toward the corner of the room.
And there she was. Anna.
Young. Idealistic. Too much heart for her own good.
Tears streamed down her face.
She’d broken every rule in the book. Shared patient details on Facebook. Invited strangers into a secure ward at 3 A.M.
I should have fired her on the spot.
But my eyes returned to Tommy.
And in that moment, every rule I’d lived by felt like it was written in sand.
Because the boy who’d been abandoned by his parents was sitting up for the first time in days.
