But the screaming continued. Thirty minutes. Forty-five. An hour. Nurses rushed past Dale’s curtained area.
Doctors were called. Nothing worked. The screaming got worse.
“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.
“Brother, what are you doing?” Snake stood up fast. “You got another hour of treatment—”
“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.
“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.
She was too exhausted to care anymore. Her son had been admitted two days ago with a severe respiratory infection.
The hospital environment, the treatments, the fear—it had overwhelmed him completely.
He hadn’t truly slept in three days, just passed out from exhaustion before waking up screaming again.
“His name is Emmett,” Jessica said, her voice breaking. “He’s two and a half. He’s terrified of this place. Of the doctors. Of everything. And I can’t… I can’t help him anymore.”
Dale approached slowly, letting Emmett see him. The boy was still screaming, but his eyes tracked this new person. Dale knelt down—his knees protesting—to get on the child’s level.
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