Then I heard the thunder of motorcycles, and these leather-clad strangers surrounded us like a wall, their bikes creating a barrier between my seizing child and the monsters who cared more about their commute than a kid’s life.

The seizure had come out of nowhere. One minute Jackson was riding his bicycle on the shoulder, me jogging beside him during our afternoon exercise. The next, he’d collapsed, his little body rigid and shaking.

I’d pulled him off the shoulder onto the grass, but he’d rolled back toward the road during the convulsions.

I couldn’t lift him and hold his head at the same time. Couldn’t protect him from traffic and stop him from biting his tongue.

“Help!” I’d screamed at the