The Boy Asked Me To Hold His Hand While He Died Because His Dad Wouldn’t

I still visit the children’s hospital every week. Still bring toys. Still sit with kids who don’t have anyone.

And on my vest, right over my heart, is a new patch. It shows a little boy on a motorcycle, riding toward heaven. Underneath it says: “Ethan – My Little Warrior – Riding Free Forever.”

Every kid I visit, I tell them about Ethan. About the bravest seven-year-old I ever knew. About the boy who taught a scary old biker how to love.

And every night, before I go to sleep, I hold the stuffed elephant Ethan’s father gave me after the funeral. The same worn-out elephant Ethan clutched every single day.

“Goodnight, little brother,” I whisper. “Save me a spot up there. When my time comes, we’re going for that ride I promised you.”