I was the nurse on duty that Sunday morning when four massive bikers walked into the maternity ward at six a.m. — leather vests, boots, tattoos, the whole image. For a second, I thought we were about to have a serious problem. Hospitals aren’t exactly places where you expect a motorcycle club to show up unannounced. The biggest of them — a mountain of a man with a red bandana and a beard that reached his chest — strode straight up to my desk and said, “We’re here to see Mrs. Dorothy Chen. Room 304.” I glanced at the chart....
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