When the police arrived, it happened fast—faster than I expected. Tires screeched, doors slammed, voices cut through the air with sharp authority.
“Step away! Hands up!”
The bikers didn’t argue.
They didn’t hesitate.
They raised their hands immediately, stepping back from the man on the ground.
“He’s diabetic!” the older one shouted, urgency cutting through his voice. “His sugar crashed—we’re trying to help him!”
The words didn’t make sense at first.
They didn’t fit the narrative I had already built in my head.
Paramedics rushed in seconds later, moving with a kind of practiced efficiency that contrasted sharply with my own rising confusion. Equipment appeared—bags unzipped, monitors attached, hands moving quickly but deliberately.
“What did you give him?” one of them asked.
