One Saturday morning, Savage wheeled Tommy outside.
They had rigged a sidecar to his Harley—safe, padded, just his size.
“Ready for your first ride, brother?” Savage asked.
Tommy’s face lit up. “Ready.”
Engines thundered. Nurses clapped. Parents cheered. Children waved from the windows.
And for ten glorious minutes, Tommy wasn’t dying.
He was flying.
Leather vest flapping. Laughter echoing. A boy reborn.
When they returned, he whispered to me, “I felt free.”
Not long after, Tommy slipped away.
Quietly. Peacefully.
The vest still wrapped around him.
The bikers came to the funeral.
Fifteen men in leather vests stood at the back, heads bowed.
When the service ended, Savage stepped forward and placed his gloves on the casket.
“Ride free, brother,” he said, his voice breaking. “You’ll always be one of us.”
Then fifteen engines roared in salute.
Shaking the ground. Sending Tommy off not as a patient.
But as a warrior.
