The boys and their families arrived and froze at the sight. One biker placed a teddy bear near Mikey’s photo. Another wiped away tears. At the funeral, they said nothing threatening—only this: “We’re here to make sure everyone remembers what today is about. A boy who deserved better.” When school resumed, they showed up again. At the principal’s request, I let them speak to the students.They told stories of children they’d lost—sons, daughters, nieces. One woman, Angel, said, “Words are weapons.
Some wounds don’t bleed where you can see them.” Students cried. Confessed. Apologized. Mikey’s bullies sat silent in the front row. They transferred out shortly after. No threats, just presence. The principal resigned. A new one implemented anti-bullying reforms. Mikey’s story made national news. I quit my job and started riding with the Angels. Sometimes I speak at funerals. Sometimes I just stand there, silent but visible. We can’t save the children we lost. But maybe our thunder—the echo we leave behind—can save the next one. For Mikey’s sake, I have to believe it can.