I never imagined that being thrown from my wheelchair onto pavement would lead me to find the family I never knew I needed. The infamous Hell Angels MC, feared by everyone in town, became my unlikely protectors when corrupt police and privileged bullies left me bleeding and alone. What nobody expected was how this broken boy in a wheelchair would change even the most hardened bikers, revealing the gentle warriors beneath leather vests and teaching an entire town what real justice looks like. The day Patch took a bullet for me, shielding my body with his own, I realize some family bonds are forged in blood, but not the kind you're born with. I hate Mondays.
I hate the smell of school hallways. I hate the sound of whispers that follow me. My name is Eli Barn. I'm 11 years old and I've been in this wheelchair since I was seven. Car accident.
Mom survived. Dad didn't. The squeaky wheel on my chair announces my arrival before I do. Eyes dart away when I look up. Nobody wants to stare at the kid.
Nobody wants to help either. Move it, wheels, someone mutters as I navigate the crowded hallway. I keep my head down. Invisible is good. Invisible means safe.
Mrs. Peterson hands back our math test. She drops mine on my desk without looking at me. Red marks cover the page. I was sick last week and missed two days.
See me after class, she says. My stomach twists. After class means late for lunch. Late for lunch means the good tables are taken. The good tables are the ones near the wall where nobody can sneak up behind.
The bell rings. Students rush past me. I wait until the room. Eli, your grades are slipping. Mrs.
Peterson says her voice is I missed some classes. I can make it up. She sigh. You need to try harder. I can't give you special treatment.
I nod. She never has. The hallway is empty when I leave. My wheels echo against the locker. The cafeteria doors feel heavier today.
Inside, the noise hits me first. Then the smell of overcooked pasta. Every table is full except the one near the garbage can. I wheel myself over, unwrap my sandwich, and eat alone. A milk carton flies past my head.
Laughter erupts from three tables away. I don't look up. Don't react. React. And it gets worse.
The bell rings. I'm late to science class. Mr. Barton doesn't stop his lecture when I enter. More eyes, more whisper.
I slide into the space at the back table. Partner up, Mr. Barton announces. Lab day. The scraping of chairs, the shuffle of feet.
The room rearranges itself, and I sit alone again. Eli can observe today, Mr. Barton says. I feel hot behind my eyes. I blink it away.
The final bell can't come soon enough. I'm first out the door, wheeling fast toward the exit. Freedom is 50 yards away. Sunshine hits my face through the glass doors. They're waiting for me at the bottom of the ramp.
Cory and Dylan Finch, seniors, brothers. Their dad owns half the buildings downtown. Their mom is on the schoolboard. Look what we have here, Corey says. His voice is amused.
It's Hot Wheels. I try to turn around. Dylan blocks my path. Where you going? We just want to talk.