The bruised six-year-old boy ran straight to the scariest-looking biker and begged “Please pretend you’re my dad before he finds me.”

I was pumping gas at a Shell station, my leather vest covered in skulls and military patches, when this kid in pajamas and bare feet came sprinting across the parking lot.

Behind him, a pickup truck screeched around the corner, and the boy immediately ducked behind my Harley, his whole body shaking like a leaf in a storm. Continues…