No one could have known that fifty bikers would show up at the funeral for my son. Most certainly not the four teens who killed him.
It’s never been my thing to cry. Working as a high school cleaner for 26 years made me tough and taught me how to hold everything in. The first Harley pulled into the graveyard lot, then another, and another, until the whole place shook with their roar. That’s when I finally lost it.
Mikey, my 14-year-old son, killed himself in our garage. Four of his peers were named in his suicide note. “This is too much for me, Dad,” he wrote. “They are not going to stop.” They tell me every day that I should k.i.l.l. myself. They’ll finally get what they wanted now.
The police said it was “tragic but not critical.” The director of the school sent “thoughts and prayers” and then suggested that the funeral be held during school hours to “avoid any problems.”
I’d never let down my guard so much. I wasn’t able to keep my boy safe while he was living. After he was gone, they couldn’t get justice.
Then Sam came to our door. He was six feet three inches tall, wore a leather vest, and had a gray beard that reached his chest. I knew him because he pumped gas at the gas station where Mikey and I would get slushies after his therapy sessions.
He stood awkwardly on our porch and said, “Heard about your boy.” “That’s what my nephew did three years ago.” “Different school, same reason.”
I just nodded because I didn’t know what to say.
Sam looked past me as if it hurt to say it. “The thing is, no one stood up for my nephew.” Not after or at the end. Those kids didn’t have to do what they did.
He gave me a folded piece of paper with a phone number on it. “Call us if you need us to come.” There is no trouble, just present.
I forgot to call. Not at first. But I found Mikey’s book the night before the funeral. Pages full of pain. Text messages that told my kind, troubled son to “do everyone a favor and end it” are shown below.
As I called, my hands were shaking.
“How many people do you think will be at the funeral?””Sam asked after I told him,”
“Perhaps thirty.” Some teachers and family. He didn’t have any peers.
“Are the people who beat him coming?“
“The principal said they were going to do it with their parents.” “To show support.” The words smelled like a.c.i.d.
Sam was quiet for a while. “We’ll be there at nine.” There is nothing to worry about.
I didn’t know what he meant until the next morning, when I saw them: a sea of worn-out faces, serious eyes, and leather vests. The Hell’s Angels patches could be seen as they made two lines that led to the small chapel, making a safe passageway.
The funeral director came up to me, his eyes filled with fear. “Sir, there are a lot of motorcycle fans coming in.” Should I phone the police?“
“They’re welcome,” I told them.
As soon as the four boys and their parents got there, they saw the bikes and their faces turned from confusion to fear.
Three months before the funeral, I saw that my son had changed. He stopped talking about school and stopping inviting people over for small things at first. Mikey was always quiet and liked being alone with his books and sketch pads more than with other kids. But this was different. This was pulling back.
“Is everything okay at school?”When we washed dishes together one night—something we do every night since his mom left when he was eight—I asked.
He said, “Fine,” and his eyes were fixed on the plate he was drying.
“Made any new friends in high school?”I gave it another shot.
His shoulders tightened up a bit. “Not really.”
That’s what I should have done. You should have seen the signs. But that month I worked two shifts because Jenkins was out with back surgery and I was covering his part of the school as well. I was out of breath by the time I finished my rounds, checked all the classes, and made sure everything was locked up tight.
I saw the bruises anyway. A cut on his cheek one Tuesday. The next week, a split lip.
When I asked, he said, “Basketball in the gym.”
He said it again: “Tripped on the stairs.”
I wanted to believe him, so I did. Because if I didn’t, I would fail him, and I had already failed him enough when his mother left.
The school library worker, Ms. Abernathy, was the first person to try to warn me. In the afternoon, she caught me in the hallway while I was cleaning up some soda that had been spilled near the canteen.
“Mr. “Collins,” she said softly, “I need to talk to you about Mikey.”
I stopped when I heard her voice. “What about him?”“
She looked around to make sure we were the only ones there. “He’s been going to the library for lunch every day.” She wasn’t sure what to say. At first, she thought he just liked to read. There he is, I believe.
“What are you hiding?”“
“That group of boys is mostly made up of seniors.” I have seen how they look at him as he walks by. The way they talk. I found Mikey’s bag in the trash can outside the library yesterday.
I told her I would talk to Mikey, and that night I did. He did shut down, though.
“Don’t worry, Dad. The library is nice to me. It’s not loud.
After a week, I found his notebook thrown away. The pages were wet, and the pictures were so fuzzy that they were impossible to read. He told me that he had accidentally spilled his drink on it when I asked him about it. But there was something dead in his eyes that I had never seen before.
The next day, I asked to meet with Mr. Davidson, the director.
He told me, “Kids will be kids, Mr. Collins,” after hearing my worries. “There’s a natural order to things in high school.” Mikey needs to get tougher and learn to stand his ground.
I told them, “He’s being billed.”
Davidson let out a sigh and leaned back in his chair. “Look, I can’t do much without specifics like names, dates, and events.” Has Mikey told you for sure that someone is hurting him?“
He didn’t. And when I tried to get him to talk that night, he just shut down even more.
When I wouldn’t stop, he finally said, “You’re making it worse.” He had never yelled at me before. “Dad, just leave it alone.” “Please.”
I did that. I did it, God help me.
The garage was so quiet the morning I found him that it still makes me think of it. At first, there was no note. Mikey, my boy, was hanging from a rafter that I had helped him swing from when he was little.
The cops were polite, but they seemed far away. They told me that suicide wasn’t a crime. What a tragedy. There were pictures taken, questions I couldn’t even think of, and then they left me alone in a house that felt huge and empty all of a sudden.
After three days, I was cleaning his room because I needed to do something. That’s when I found the note stuck to the bottom of his desk drawer.
He wrote in very neat handwriting, “I can’t take it anymore, Dad.” “They are not going to stop.” They tell me every day that I should k.i.l.l. myself. They’ll be happy now.
Jake Weber, Tyler Conroy, Drew Halstead, and Marcus Finch are the names of his four boys. Over 65s. Sporters. Sons of well-known names in town.
Right away, I took the note to the police station, shaking with anger and sadness.
Officer Brandt read it twice and then looked up at me with real pity. It’s clear that Mr. Collins is looking for answers, but…
“But what?” The boys who took my son to K.I.L.L. were named by him. Not enough?“
He moved in an uncomfortable way. Most of the time, words—even cruel ones—aren’t crucial. Unless there were direct threats or attacks, which we can prove,
“They told him to k.i.l.l. himself.” Every day. “And now he has.”
Brandt said, “I’m really sorry,” and I thought he meant it. “But from a legal point of view, this is bad, but not essential.”
Next, I went back to Davidson and held the note like it was Mikey’s.
He read it and said, “This is terrible.” “Just awful.” We’ll talk to these boys for sure, and anyone who needs it can get help from us.
“Getting help?”I repeated because I wasn’t sure if I had heard him right.” “They teased my son until he tied a rope around his neck, and now you’re giving them advice?”“
Davidson blew his nose. “Mr. Collins, I understand that you’re sad, but we need to be careful with this. This is about minors who have bright careers ahead of them.
I broke down in tears and said, “My son doesn’t have a future.” “Because of them.”
He said some nice things about time and healing, and then he suggested that the funeral happen during school hours to “avoid potential incidents.” This meant that no one should make a scene, disrupt the school, or make other people feel bad.
I’d never let down my guard so much. I wasn’t able to keep my boy safe while he was living. After he was gone, they couldn’t get justice.
Sam came to our door three days before the service. He was six feet three inches tall, wore a leather vest, and had a gray beard that reached his chest. I knew him because he pumped gas at the gas station where Mikey and I would get slushies after his therapy sessions.
“Mr. Collins,” he said as he took off his scarf. “My name is Sam Reeves.”
I didn’t trust my voice when I nodded. Once people knew about Mikey, they didn’t come over very often. Most people don’t say anything when a child dies by suicide.
He stood awkwardly on our porch and said, “Heard about your boy.” “That’s what my nephew did three years ago.” “Different school, same reason.”
Since I didn’t know what to say, I just nodded again, which had become my main way of talking.
Sam looked past me as if it hurt to say it. “The thing is, no one stood up for my nephew.” Not after or at the end. Those kids didn’t have to do what they did.
He gave me a folded piece of paper with a phone number on it. “Call us if you need us to come.” There is no trouble, just present.
“Who are ‘us’?”I was able to ask.
“Black Knights Motorcycle Club. Our main job is to do charity runs. Started a program to stop people from lying after my nephew. “His eyes finally met mine. “Mr. Collins, no parent should have to bury their child.” Kids shouldn’t think that dying is better than going to school one more day.
I put the paper on the kitchen counter after he left and tried not to think about it again. I wasn’t into motorcycles. It had never been. It felt like saying I couldn’t handle this on my own when I asked for help from strangers, which was true but hard to face.
I couldn’t sleep the night before the funeral. Every room in the house made me miss Mikey, and I felt like it was pushing down on me. I went into his room and sat on his narrow bed to look at the model airplanes that were hanging from the ceiling. That was his pride and joy, especially the WWII Spitfire we built together for Christmas last year.
I saw that the corner of his cushion was slightly pulled up at that point. When I lifted it, I saw Mickey’s diary in a spiral notebook and a folder full of papers.
The first entry in his diary was made on his first day of high school. They were hopeful at first. He wrote about his classes, the English girl Emma who smiled at him, and his plans to join the art club.
But by October, things had changed.
I was trapped in the bathroom today by Jason and his friends. They told me my drawings were gay. I told everyone I wet myself, even though they were the ones pushing me against the potty.
“Again, Tyler took my lunch.” I told him I should thank him because I was too fat anyway.
“Know why Emma was being nice.” Drew made her do it as a joke. When she asked me to go to the Halloween dance and then told everyone she was joking, they all laughed.
Page after page of pain. Big problems start out as small ones and grow into huge ones. When my son was having a hard time, I saw screenshots of text messages and social media posts asking him to “do everyone a favor and end it.”
“No one would miss you.” “Why don’t you kill yourself already?””You are not needed in this world.”
As I reached for the phone, my hands were shaking. I didn’t care that it was past midnight. I called the number Sam gave me.
He picked up on the second ring and sounded very awake. “What Sam said.”
“This is Alan Collins.” “Mikey’s dad.” I thought my voice sounded funny. “I was told to call you if I wanted to be there.”
“Yes, sir, I did,” she said. There was no judgment or surprise at the time.
“How many people do you think will be at the funeral?””Sam asked after I told him what I had found.”
“Perhaps thirty.” Some teachers and family. He didn’t have any peers.
“Are they coming? The ones who lied to him?”“
“The principal said they were going to do it with their parents.” The words “to show support” hurt my mouth.
Sam was quiet for a while. “We’ll be there at nine.” There is nothing to worry about.
I didn’t know what he meant until the next morning, when I saw them: a sea of worn-out faces, serious eyes, and leather vests. Men and women between the ages of 40 and 80, many of them wearing patches that show they served in the military. Some of the vests had Hell’s Angels patches on them, and they made two lines that led to the small chapel, making a safe passageway.
The funeral director came up to me, his eyes filled with fear. “Sir, there are a lot of motorcycle fans coming in.” Should I phone the police?“
As I watched more bikes pull in, I told them, “They’re welcome.”
Their names were called out one by one as they came up to me. Sam. Big Mike. Doc. Hammer. Speaker. Angel. They all shook hands firmly and didn’t say much, but the look in their eyes said it all: “We get it.” We’ve been here before. You’re not by yourself.
Raven, a woman, gave me a small pin with Mikey’s letters on it. It looked like an angel wing. She said in a soft voice, “For your lapel.” “One is made for every kid.”
I saw that these coats had a lot of pins on them. A lot of kids died. A lot of deaths are like this one.
As soon as the four boys and their parents got there, they saw the bikes and their faces turned from confusion to fear. The Weber boy moved back toward their SUV, but his dad put his hand on his shoulder and stopped him.
Sam moved forward, and his voice rang through the empty parking lot.
He spoke out loud enough for everyone to hear, “These boys are welcome to pay their respects.” “We’re only here to make sure everyone knows what today is about.” A 14-year-old boy who should have had better.
One of the bikers, a big man with tattoos on his neck, put a teddy bear among the flowers next to Mikey’s picture. Someone else wiped their tears. I saw that a lot of them had their own Mikeys. Too many kids died too soon. There were brothers, nephews, and children who had given up hope.
The bikers were polite and clearly present during the whole service. They told each other stories about bullying and suicide. About fixing things and what happens afterward. “They never meant for this to happen,” Jason Weber said. But a wall of men in leather just turned and stared at him until he stopped talking.
The father of Drew Halstead came up to me at the wedding, his face red with anger.
“Are these… people your friends?””He asked, looking down at the bikers with dislike.”
I just said, “They’re here for Mikey.”
“Well, I don’t think it’s right.” Quite scary. “My son is very upset.”
I gave him a long look. “Mr. Halstead, your son should be mad. I found the texts he sent to Mikey. “I know what he did.”
His face turned a little paler. “Collins, boys will be boys.” Even though what happened is sad, you can’t blame Drew for your son’s… mental health problems.
I felt someone next to me, and when I turned around, I saw Sam. He was quiet, but as solid as a rock.
I told Halstead, “I think you should leave now.” “Go with your son.”
“Do you mean to scare me?”He spluttered, Halstead.
Then Sam spoke. His voice was soft but clear. “No one is making threats.” Today, though, is a day to remember Mikey Collins. You don’t fit here if you can’t do that.
Halstead looked from Sam to me and then back to the group of bikers who were watching from a safe distance. With no more words, he picked up Drew and left. Soon after, the other three families came.
The bikers stayed after the funeral, when most of the normal attendees had left. Sam gave me a card that had a lot of marks on it.
“We ride for kids who can’t make it on their own anymore,” he said. “We’re going to that school of his next week.” Giving a speech about bullying. Those four boys are going to sit in the front row.
When I tried to thank him, my voice broke.
He said, “Don’t thank us.” “Just live.” That’s what your boy would want.
The roar of the engines grew as they got on their bikes, sounding like a promise—not of violence but of safety. The kind I didn’t give my son.
I didn’t go to work on Monday after that. Couldn’t go into the halls where Mikey had been hurt yet. Instead, I sat on my front porch with a cup of coffee that was already very cold and watched the street as if I were waiting for Mikey to walk up it after school.
The phone rang just after noon.
“Mr. Mr. Davidson, this is Collins. My voice is rough. “I think you should know about something going on at school.”
“What kind of thing?”“
“There are,” he said after a pause. “It looks like about fifty motorcyclists are parked outside the school.” The students keep saying that they want to talk about bullying. They say they talked to you.
For the first time in weeks, something that might have been happiness warmed my heart. “Yes, they did say that.”
“Well, I’ve already told you that we can’t let people who aren’t supposed to be there mess up the school day.” This group of people is scary, Mr. Collins. A number of parents have already called to voice their concerns about safety.
I told them, “Let them in.”
“Excuse me, sir?”“
I said it again, “Let them in.” “Or I give those screenshots and Mikey’s journal to the local news.” The city’s TV stations would probably want to know why a 14-year-old boy killed himself and how the school handled the situation.
There was a lot of silence between us.
Davidson finally spoke up with a new edge in his voice: “That would be stupid.” “Think about how the school is known.” The neighborhood.”
“I’m thinking about the neighborhood,” I said. “About all the other kids going through hard times right now, like Mikey.” Hey Davidson, let them in. Allow them to talk. Or I swear to God I’ll tell everyone what happened to my son and who I think did it.
There was another long pause. “All right. They can use the theater for an hour. Things will not go well with this, Mr. Collins.
I almost laughed. What possible outcomes could matter to me right now?
I hung up the phone and said, “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
It was strange what was going on at Lakewood High. Along the front of the house, men and women in leather stood with their arms crossed and serious looks on their faces. There were already news cars there, and reporters were trying to get anyone who would talk to say something.
Sam was talking to a woman I recognized as Mrs. Abernathy, the librarian who had tried to tell me about Mikey’s problems. I found Sam near the door.
“Mr. Collins,” Sam said, nodding. “I’m glad you could make it.”
I said, “Wouldn’t miss it.” “Is the principal giving you trouble?”“
“We can handle anything.” Today you look better.
Not really, I didn’t feel better. Still, I felt something change inside me when I was with people who cared about Mikey—a boy they had never even met—enough to show up and speak for him. Not really healing. But reason.
The students walked into the hall with wide eyes and whispered to each other as they went by the bikers who were set up along the walls. When I looked back, I saw Jason, Tyler, Drew, and Marcus crowded together in the back row, trying to look fierce but failing.
They were in the front row, and Sam pointed them out to a rider named Hammer. Hammer nodded and moved toward them.
“Boys,” Hammer said in a friendly voice, blocking their way out, “we saved you special seats.” In the front, where you can hear it best.
The Weber boy looked like he was going to say something, but Hammer’s face made him change his mind. They all sat down in the front row with their heads down.
Principal Davidson gave a short, awkward introduction. He didn’t have as much power as usual because of the situation. Then Sam went on stage and took off his scarf as he got close to the mic.
He started, “My name is Sam Reeves.” His voice was steady and clear. “I’m here today because a boy who should be here with you isn’t.” His name was Michael Collins. Mikey to his friends, if he was allowed to have any.
The whole hall went silent as hundreds of teenage eyes locked on this strange speaker.
Michael hanged himself in the basement of his dad three weeks ago. Left a note listing four kids at this school who had been bullying him nonstop. He was told to k.i.l.l. himself. He did it.
He took a moment to really think about those words. There were four boys in the front row who were moving around while the whole class looked at them.
“I’m not here to make threats.” I’m here to talk about what will happen. And not just for those four boys. For everyone in this room who saw what was going on but did nothing. Didn’t do anything.
Sam and the other Steel Angels talked about flying and suicide for forty minutes. They talked about the sons, daughters, nieces, and cousins they had lost. They showed shots of happy kids who were no longer there.
Angel, a woman, then stepped forward. There was no way she was taller than five feet, but her presence filled the room.
Her speech was steady even though her eyes showed pain, “My daughter Emma killed herself when she was sixteen.” “Well-known girl. Girl who cheers. She hid her pain so well that no one knew she was in pain. But the words on her phone were what really happened. Girls she thought were her friends told her she wasn’t worth anything. Online, boys rate her body parts.
She turned her attention to the four boys in the front row. “You believe you are kidding. Having fun. Being tough. But words can hurt, and some cuts don’t show.
By the end, a number of kids were crying out loud. One girl got up and, through tears, admitted that she had known Mikey was lying but hadn’t said anything because she was afraid of what would happen. After them came more confessions and apologies. It was too late for my son, but they might have saved another child.
At the end of the show, there was a moment of silence for Mikey and all the other kids who died because of bullying. People from the school stopped to talk to the bikers as they were leaving. They asked questions, told stories, and signed anti-bullying pledges that the club had brought.
The four boys tried to sneak away quickly, but Sam caught them.
He just said, “We’ll be watching.” “Not just us. Everyone now. Don’t forget that.
They gave a pale nod and ran off quickly.
Davidson came up to me as the theater was emptying out. I couldn’t read his face. “That was… interesting, Mr. Collins.”
“Yes, it was.”
“But I hope you understand that I can’t have people who aren’t supposed to be there bothering the school like this again.” No matter how good their intentions are.
I looked at him, this man who turned away from my worries and let down my son. “Don’t worry about that, Mr. Davidson.” “I quit.”
His eyes got a little bigger. “Stop?” You’ve been with us for—”
“Twenty-six years.” During that time, I never saw a kid in pain without trying to help them. “That’s not true for you.”
He stood there while I walked away. It was the first time in weeks that I felt good.
Those four boys never went back to Lakewood High School. After bikers started showing up at school events and football games, just watching quietly from a distance, they quietly left. There were no threats or fights. Just being there. Thoughts.
Those three school systems had to follow the bullying awareness program that the Steel Angels put on that day. News stories about the “Biker Intervention,” as they called it, made people all over the country talk about how to stop bullying and suicide.
At the end of the school year, Davidson quit. The new director was a woman whose brother had died of suicide when he was a teenager. She made strict rules against bullying. Mrs. Abernathy was in charge of a program that taught students how to spot and report lies among their peers.
I sold my house. I couldn’t stand to look at that garage any longer. Some of the money was used to create a grant in Mikey’s honor for students who are interested in art, which was his true love.
I keep Sam’s number in my phone. When the sadness gets too much, I sometimes call him. I ride with them sometimes when they go to other funerals to watch over other kids who died too soon. It’s not a nice Honda, but it gets me where I need to go. I learned how to ride from Sam. said I was good at it.
We went to a funeral last week in a town three counties away. Another boy, another murder victim, and another broken family. As we parked our bikes outside the graveyard, a father came up to me. His eyes were hollow and had red edges around them.
“Are you with them?”“What are they?” he asked, pointing at the Steel Angels.
I replied, “Yes.” “We’re here for your son.”
He nodded, but he didn’t know what to say. “When I saw you all pull in, I thought… for the first time since it happened, I thought… maybe this could turn out well.”
When I put my hand on his shoulder, I could feel the pain of his sadness. I knew those pains all too well.
I said, “It will.” “Not today.” Not tomorrow. It will happen, though.
As my friend and I walked toward the church, thunder rolled across the sky. It was a deep, powerful sound that felt like it was shaking the ground. There might be a storm coming or just going by.
The dad looked up, then back at me with a smile that wasn’t quite there. He said, “He always loved storms.” “They said it sounded like the sky was talking.”
I nodded, fully understanding. “So does my Mikey.”
With our rusty bikes and worn-out looks, I sometimes feel like that’s what we are now: Steel Angels. We’re the sound that follows the storm. We’re the sound that stays after a child’s voice has been turned off.
We’re the promise that someone is hearing you, even if it seems like no one is.
No one thinks that fifty bikes will show up for one child. Things will be different when they do.
It might even save the next child. The person who is currently writing a farewell note. The person who might hear our thunder and decide to wait. To find out what tomorrow brings.