My son, Maddox, was seventeen when it happened. Quiet kid. Always wore the same beat-up leather jacket, loved sketching in notebooks, and took more care of our old dog than most people do of their own siblings. He wasn’t the kind of kid you’d expect to get in trouble. But he rode his bike everywhere—rain, snow, didn’t matter. Said it helped him think. That night, he was biking home from his after-school job. Just three blocks away when a car full of teenagers decided to play some stupid game—tailgating a cyclist, revving loud, trying to scare him. They “didn’t mean...
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