At my son’s burial, no one anticipated fifty motorcycle riders. The four teens who placed him there were the least of all.

He gave me a folded piece of paper with a number on it. “If you want us there, give us a call. Just presence, no hassle.

I did not make a call. Not initially. However, I discovered Mikey’s journal the evening before the burial. Pages of suffering. Text message screenshots urging my kind, troubled son to “do everyone a favor and end it.”

A number of males, mostly seniors, are present. I’ve observed their reactions to him as he walks by. The way they murmur. Mikey’s backpack was in the garbage can outside the library yesterday.

I tried to talk to Mikey that evening as I had promised. But he stopped talking altogether.

I insisted that he was being bullied.
With a sigh, Davidson reclined on his seat. “Look, I can’t do anything without particular incidences, names, and dates.  

Has Mikey told you that he is being harmed by someone?”
He hadn’t. And he only withdrew more into himself that evening when I pressed him.
When I refused to let it go, he finally yelled, “You’re making it worse.” He had never raised his voice to me before. “Just leave it alone, Dad,” he said. Please.

So I did. I did, thank God. I still dream about how calm the garage was the morning I found him. At first, there was no note. It was only Mikey, my child, dangling from a rafter that I had taught him to swing from when he was younger.
The police were aloof but professional. They reminded me that suicide was not a crime. It’s just a tragedy. 

After taking pictures and asking me questions I could not comprehend, they abandoned me in a house that felt suddenly huge and deserted.

Three days later, I discovered the message taped to the bottom of his desk drawer while I was cleaning his room because I needed something, anything, to do with my hands. 

 He had written, in his meticulous calligraphy, “I can’t take it anymore, Dad.” “They won’t give up. They tell me to murder myself every day. They will now be content. Jason Weber, Tyler Conroy, Drew Halstead, and Marcus Finch were the four guys he named. seniors. athletes. sons of well-known families in the community. I took the note right away, my hands quivering with sadness and anger, to the police station. 

 After reading it twice, Officer Brandt gave me a sincere pitying look. “Mr. Collins, I know you’re searching for answers, but…” However, what? The boys who caused my son to commit suicide were named. Is that insufficient?” His body shifted uneasily. “Most of the time, words—even ones that are cruel—are not illegal. We can demonstrate physical assaults unless there were overt threats. They advised him to end his own life. Each day. And he has now. Brandt said, “I sincerely apologize,” and I thought he meant it. Legally speaking, however, this is regrettable but not illegal. 

 Then I returned to Davidson, holding the note as if it were Mikey’s hand. He read it, and exclaimed, “This is awful.” “It’s really awful. We will definitely talk to these boys and provide counseling to those who require it. Counseling?Uncertain if I had heard him correctly, I repeated. “You’re offering them counseling after they harassed my kid till he wrapped a rope around his neck? Davidson cleared his throat. “Mr. I know you’re in mourning, Collins, but we must approach this carefully. We are discussing minors who have futures ahead of them. My voice broke as I said, “My son has no future.” “Because of them.” He gave cliches about time and healing before proposing that we hold the funeral during school hours in order to “avoid potential incidents.” In other words, don’t cause a scene, don’t disturb the school, and don’t make other people feel uncomfortable. Never had I felt so helpless. was unable to keep my boy safe while he was alive. After he left, justice was impossible to obtain. Sam arrived at our home three days prior to the funeral.

 He’s six feet three, wearing a leather vest, and his gray beard reaches his chest. He pumped gas at the station where Mikey and I would stop for slushies after his therapy sessions, and I knew who he was. “Mr. Collins,” he said, taking off his bandana. 

“My name is Sam Reeves.” Unconfident in my voice, I nodded. Since news of Mikey spread, there have been few visitors. Most people say nothing at all when a youngster dies by suicide because they are unsure of what to say. 

 He stood awkwardly on our porch and said, “Heard about your boy.” Three years ago, my nephew committed the same act. Same reason, different school. I simply nodded once more, which had become my go-to gesture for communication, since I was at a loss for words. The problem is, Sam went on, ignoring me as if the words were painful, “no one defended my nephew.” Not after, not at the end. 

No one forced those children to confront their actions. He gave me a folded piece of paper with a number on it. 

“If you want us there, give us a call. Just presence, no hassle. “Who are ‘us’?I was able to ask. “The Motorcycle Club of Steel Angels.” Mostly, we run charity runs. He finally looked into my eyes and said, “I started an anti-bullying program after my nephew.” “Mr. Collins, no parent should have to bury their child. 

No child should believe that dying is preferable to going to school one more day. I placed the paper on the kitchen counter after he left and made an effort to ignore it. I was not a fan of motorcycles.

 It had never been. Additionally, it was difficult to acknowledge that I couldn’t manage this on my own, even though it was true, when I accepted assistance from strangers. I had trouble sleeping the night before the funeral. Every room in the house felt heavy with Mikey’s absence, like if it were bearing down on me. I found myself sitting on his slender bed in his bedroom, gazing at the miniature airplanes that hung from the ceiling.

 Particularly the WWII Spitfire that we had constructed together over Christmas, he had been really pleased of those models. At that point, I saw that his mattress’s corner was slightly raised. I removed it out of curiosity to discover a folder full of documents and Mickey’s spiral notepad. 

 His first day of high school marked the beginning of the journal entries. Initially, they were optimistic. He had written about his lessons, his intentions to join the art club, and a girl named Emma who had smiled at him in English. However, the tone shifted by October. Today, Jason and his pals cornered me in the restroom. claimed my designs were homosexual. Despite the fact that they were the ones who pushed me up against the urinal, I told everyone that I had wet myself. Tyler once more stole my meal. claimed I should thank him because I was too overweight anyhow. Discovered the reason behind Emma’s kindness. As a joke, Drew put her up to it. When she asked me to the Halloween dance and then responded, “Just kidding,” in front of everyone, they all laughed. Torment on page after page. Little acts of cruelty culminate in something hideous. Then came the screenshots—printouts of social media posts and text messages urging my kind, troubled son to “do everyone a favor and end it.” “No one would miss you.” “Why don’t you end your own life now?”Without you, the world would be a better place.” When I grabbed for the phone, my hands were shaking. Even though it was beyond late, I didn’t mind. I called the number that Sam had provided. He sounded alert as he answered on the second ring. “Sam is speaking.” Alan Collins is this person. Mikey’s father.” I thought my voice sounded weird. “If I wanted to be present, you told me to call.” “Yes, sir, I did.” There was no condemnation or surprise at the time. How many people do you anticipate attending this funeral?After I described what I had discovered, Sam inquired. “Perhaps thirty. Some instructors and family. Not one of his peers. “Are the people who harassed him coming?” The principal stated that they intend to do so with their parents. The words “to’show support.’” tasted acidic. Sam was silent for a while. “We’ll arrive at nine o’clock. There will be nothing for you to be concerned about. It wasn’t until I saw them the following morning—a sea of leather vests, aged faces, and solemn eyes—that I realized what he meant. Middle-aged to elderly men and women, many wearing patches signifying military service. They created a corridor of protection by forming two lines to the small chapel, with the Hell’s Angels patches visible on several jackets. With fear in his eyes, the funeral director came over to me. “There are a lot of motorcycle enthusiasts coming in, sir. Do I need to call the police?” As more bikes arrived, I remarked, “They are invited guests.” They approached me one by one to introduce themselves. Sam. Big Mike. Doc. Hammer. preacher. Angel. They both shook hands firmly and spoke little, but their eyes conveyed the message: We get it. We have visited this place. You’re not by yourself. 

 I received a tiny pin with Mikey’s initials on it from a woman named Raven. It was an angel wing. “For your lapel,” she said. “We create one for every kid.” I noticed that these vests had a lot of pins. A lot of kids lost.

 This funeral is one of many. Confusion gave way to fear as the four boys and their parents arrived and saw the motorcyclists. In fact, the Weber kid started to back away toward their SUV, but he was stopped by his father’s hand on his shoulder. With his words echoing through the now-quiet parking lot, Sam took a step forward. 

 He declared, loud enough for everyone to hear, “These boys are welcome to pay their respects.” Our sole purpose is to ensure that everyone is aware of the purpose of today.

 A boy of fourteen who was entitled to better. A teddy bear was delicately positioned amid the flowers near Mikey’s photo by the biggest biker, a man with tattoos all over his neck. Another wiped away the tears. 

I discovered that many of them had their own Mikeys. Youngsters died too soon. Daughters, brothers, and nephews who had lost hope. The bikers were respectful but clearly present during the service. They related tales of suicide and bullying. 

About consequences and repair. Jason Weber attempted to argue that they had “never meant for this to happen,” but a wall of guys in leather just turned to look at him until he stopped talking. During the reception, Drew Halstead’s father came over to me, his face flushed with outrage. “Are you friends with these… people?He asked, giving the bikers a disgusted look. Simply put, “They’re here for Mikey.” “Well, it seems inappropriate to me. frightening. 

My son is really distressed. I stared at him for a while. “Mr. Halstead, your son ought to be distressed. He texted Mikey, and I located them. I am aware of his actions. His face went a little white. Collins, boys will be boys.

 Although what transpired is regrettable, you cannot hold Drew responsible for your son’s mental health problems. I sensed someone standing next to me, and I turned to see Sam, quiet as a rock yet unwavering. 

 I told Halstead, “I think you should go now.” “Go with your son.” “Are you trying to harm me?Halstead’s voice trailed off. At that moment, Sam’s voice was calm yet powerful. “There are no threats against anyone. 

However, it is a day to remember Mikey Collins. You don’t belong here if you can’t accomplish that. Halstead glanced from Sam to me and back to the group of motorcyclists observing politely. He gathered Drew and walked out without saying anything else. 

Soon later, the other three families arrived. The bikers stayed after the funeral, when the most of the usual mourners had left. 

Sam gave me a card that was signed by dozens of people. “We ride for the children who are no longer able to defend themselves,” he stated. We’re going to that school of his next week. speaking about bullying. The front row will be occupied by those four boys. My voice broke as I began to thank him. “Don’t give us credit,” he urged. “Just be alive. 

That is what your boy would want. The sound of motors roared as they mounted their bikes, a promise of protection rather than violence. the type I had neglected to provide for my son. 

 I skipped work on Monday of the following week. Not yet, not yet, to confront the corridors where Mikey had endured. Rather, after school, I waited on my front porch, sipping cold coffee and watching the street as though Mikey might walk up it. 

 It was just after noon when my phone rang. “Mr. “This is Principal Davidson, Collins,” he said in a strained tone. “I t hink you should be aware of a situation at the school.” “What sort of circumstance?” “There are,” he said, pausing. About fifty motorcycle riders seem to be parked outside the school. They are adamant about speaking to the student body about bullying. They claim to have talked to you. 

 For the first time in weeks, the spark of what may have been satisfaction ignited my chest. “Yes, that was mentioned.” I’ve already clarified that we cannot permit unauthorized people to interfere with the school day. Mr. Collins, these folks are scary.

Numerous parents who are worried about their safety have already contacted. “Allow them to enter,” I said. “Will you please forgive me?” “Allow them to enter,” I said again. Or I give the local news access to Mikey’s journal and those screenshots. 

The reason for a fourteen-year-old boy’s suicide and the school’s response would undoubtedly be of interest to the city’s TV stations. 

There was silence between us. With a new intensity in his voice, Davidson eventually stated, “That would be unwise.” Consider the school’s standing. the neighborhood. “The community is on my mind,” I answered. 

About all the other children who are going through hardships at the moment, like Mikey. Come on in, Davidson. Let them speak. Or I pledge to God that I will ensure that everyone is aware of my son’s exact fate and the person responsible. Another long silence. 

Excellent. The auditorium is theirs for an hour. However, Mr. Collins, there will be repercussions for this. It nearly made me chuckle. What possible repercussions might I care about now? After saying, “I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” I hung up. It was a weird scene at Lakewood High. 

The entire front of the building was lined with motorcycles, and men and women in leather stood next to them, their faces gloomy and their arms crossed. Reporters were attempting to obtain remarks from anyone who would speak, and news vans had already arrived. Sam was talking to a woman I knew as Mrs. Abernathy, the librarian who had attempted to alert me to Mikey’s problems, close to the entrance. “Mr. Collins. Sam gave a nod.

 “Happy you were able to make it.” I answered, “I wouldn’t miss it.” “Are you having problems, principal?” “There is nothing we cannot manage. You appear better today. I didn’t actually feel much better.

 However, I sensed a change in myself as I stood there surrounded by people who were so concerned about Mikey—a youngster they had never even met—that they came to advocate for him. 

Not exactly healing. But with a purpose. 

 As they passed the motorcycles positioned along the walls, students streamed inside the theater with wary eyes and whispered to one another. In the back row, I saw Jason, Tyler, Drew, and Marcus huddled together, attempting but failing to project a defiant image. Sam pointed to a biker named Hammer and said, “Front row.” Hammer nodded and approached them. 

 With his enormous frame obstructing their escape, Hammer replied sweetly, “Boys, we saved you special seats.” Right up front, where the sound quality is excellent. The Weber child appeared to object, but something in Hammer’s face convinced him to change his mind. 

Heads lowered, all four went to the front row. Principal Davidson gave a quick, awkward introduction, the situation undermining his customary authority. After then, Sam walked up to the microphone and pulled off his bandana. He said, “My name is Sam Reeves,” in a calm and firm voice. “A boy who should be seated among you isn’t, so I’m here today. Michael Collins was his name. 

If he had been permitted to have any pals, Mikey would have told them. With hundreds of teenagers staring at this improbable speaker, the hall went silent. Three weeks ago, Mickey committed suicide by hanging himself in his father’s garage. left a note identifying the four pupils who had harassed him nonstop at this school. told him to end his own life. 

And he did.. He took a moment to process those statements. The four boys in the front row writhed in the crowd’s combined stare. “I’m not here to make threats. I’m here to discuss the repercussions. For all of the people in this room who witnessed what was happening but remained silent, not just those four lads. did not take any action. Sam and other Steel Angels members discussed bullying and suicide over the next forty minutes. Regarding the sons, daughters, nieces, and nephews they had lost. They displayed images of happy children who had since vanished. Then an Angel, a woman, came forward. 

Her presence filled the room, despite the fact that she could not have been taller than five feet. Despite the grief in her eyes, she spoke steadily as she stated, “My daughter Emma was sixteen when she killed herself.” “Well-liked girl. cheerleader. She concealed her pain so well that no one was aware of it. But the true tale was revealed in the messages on her phone. 

She was told she was useless by girls she believed to be her friends. Online, boys are ranking her bodily parts. She gave the four males in the front row her whole attention. “You believe you’re merely kidding. Enjoying myself. being hardy. However, some wounds don’t bleed where they are visible, and words are weapons. By the end, a number of pupils were sobbing aloud. 

One girl got up and, while crying, admitted that she had been aware of Mikey’s bullying but had been too scared to speak up. Others followed, a stream of apologies and confessions that could have saved someone else’s child but came too late for my boy. A moment of silence was observed at the end of the presentation in honor of Mikey and all the other kids who had been harmed by bullying. 

Many children paused to talk to the motorcyclists as they poured out, asking questions, exchanging anecdotes, and signing anti-bullying pledges presented by the club. Sam stopped the four youngsters as they attempted a hasty escape. “We will be observing,” he stated plainly. Not only us. Now everyone. 

Keep it in mind. With pallid expressions, they nodded and rushed off. As the auditorium began to empty, Davidson came toward me, his face unreadable. “Mr. Collins, that was… quite something.” “Yes, it was.” However, I hope you see that I cannot tolerate uninvited guests disturbing the school in this manner once more. regardless of how well-meaning they may be. 

I turned to face this man who had let my worries go and let my son down. “Mr. Davidson, you won’t have to be concerned about it. I give up.

 His eyes grew a little wider. “Stop? However, you’ve been here with us for— Twenty-six years. And throughout all that time, I never witnessed a child in pain without attempting to assist them. 

For you, I am unable to say the same. He stood there while I walked away. It was the first positive emotion I had experienced in weeks. Lakewood High never saw those four boys again. 

After bikers began attending school functions and football games and silently observing from a distance, they quietly moved out. No confrontations, no threats. Simply being there. A reminder. Three school districts made the Steel Angels’ bullying awareness program obligatory after they delivered it that day. 

Nationwide discussions about bullying and suicide prevention were spurred by news coverage of the so-called “Biker Intervention.” At the conclusion of the academic year, Davidson resigned. 

Comprehensive anti-bullying rules were put in place by the new principle, a woman who lost her brother to suicide when she was a teenager. A peer support program that taught kids how to identify and report bullying was placed under Mrs. Abernathy’s supervision. 

 For my part, I sold the home. I could no longer stand to look at that garage. used a portion of the funds to create a scholarship in Mikey’s honor for students who want to pursue his love, art. Sam’s number is saved in my phone. 

When the grief becomes too much, I occasionally give him a call. As a guard for other kids who departed too young, I occasionally ride along with them when they attend other funerals. I purchased a used Honda; it’s not very fancy, but it gets me where I’m going. I learned to ride from Sam. I was a natural, they said. 

 We went to a funeral in a town three counties away last week. Another boy, another victim of bullying, another broken family. A father with hollow, red-rimmed eyes came up to me as we were lining up our motorcycles outside the graveyard. “Are you with them?He nodded to the Steel Angels as he asked. “Yes,” I said. 

“Your son is the reason we are here.” He nodded, finding it difficult to speak. “For the first time since it happened, I thought maybe something positive could come out of this when I saw you all pulling in.” Placing my hand on his shoulder, I could feel the tremors of anguish that I knew too well coursing through him. 

 “It will,” I said. “Not today. Not tomorrow. However, it will. Thunder, a loud, deep sound that seemed to reverberate through the earth beneath our feet, rolled over the sky as we made our way toward the chapel. 

A storm approaching, or maybe just going past. The father gave me a ghostly smile before turning around to face me. He remarked, “He always loved storms.” “Said the sky seemed to be speaking.” I nodded, fully comprehending. “My Mikey too.” With our rumbling bikes and grizzled looks, I sometimes feel like we are all Steel Angels now. 

When the storm has passed, we are the thunder that arrives. When a child’s voice is cut off, we are the echo that is left behind. Even when it appears like no one is listening, we are the assurance that someone is. For one youngster, no one expects fifty bikers to turn up. But when they do, everything is different.