After an eleven-hour nursing shift, I was grabbed from behind in the hospital parking garage, dragged toward the stairwell, unable to scream or fight.
Then a motorcycle appeared, and a biker intervened—he pulled my attacker off me, made sure he ran, called the police and security, and stayed by my side the entire night, giving me his jacket while I shook.
His name was Marcus: maybe fifty-five, leather vest, gray beard, scarred knuckles—the kind of man you’d be warned to avoid—but his eyes were kind. He stayed through the police report, the hospital exam, and the long wait for my roommate, quietly protecting me when I couldn’t protect myself.
