The biker accepted the crumpled twenty-dollar bill from the frail ten-year-old boy and tried not to let the tears fall.
“I need to hire you,” the boy rasped through his oxygen mask. “All of you.”
He lifted a trembling arm, still attached to an IV line, and pointed at the twelve of us gathered at the gas station. “For my funeral. It’s next week.”
I’d seen sick kids before. But never anything like this. He was skeletal, bald from chemo, barely able to stand, and yet he had somehow stolen his mom’s car from the hospital lot and driven here. He confessed he probably had less than an hour before anyone realized he was gone.
“They’ll come,” he whispered, his sunken eyes wide. “The kids from school. They’ll pretend they were my friends. Take selfies with my casket. Post about me for likes.” His voice shook.
“They called me ‘Cancer Boy.’ Barked at me when I lost my hair. Said I looked like a mole rat. And now, they’ll show up and act heartbroken.” He shoved the twenty into my hand. “Please. Scare them. Rev your engines. Make them run.”
My name’s Jackson “Jax” Mitchell. I’ve been riding for forty years. Thought I’d seen it all. But I hadn’t seen anything until Timothy Chen rolled up that day.
The Boy’s Request
Tim stood there in his hospital gown and dinosaur pajamas, IV pole dragging behind him. Up close, his skin was gray, his body weak. But his eyes—his eyes were burning. He told us his name, his diagnosis—neuroblastoma—and that he had maybe ten days left. He wasn’t asking for hope. He was asking for justice.
Tim described the kids who tormented him: Madison, Kayden, and a boy called Brick. They mocked his seizures, filmed his vomiting, even bet on when he would die. Madison once bragged she’d wear the same outfit she wore to her dog’s birthday party to his funeral.
“My mom’s already planning it,” Tim said flatly. “Sunday I’ll stop treatment. By Wednesday, they’ll bury me. But I don’t want those kids there. I don’t want them anywhere near my mom.”
He held out his only twenty again.
We refused the money. “We’ll be there,” I promised him. “Not to scare them, but to honor you. Really honor you.”
The ambulance came to take him back. As they loaded him in, he clutched my hand. “Promise?”
“Promise,” I said.
A New Mission
We couldn’t let him just fade away. Over the next few days, we dug into his life. His YouTube channel, TimBuilds, had just forty-seven subscribers. Videos of him building Lego sets and rockets while tethered to IVs. His last video was a farewell, thanking his tiny audience.
That broke me. So we shared his videos on our biker page. Within days, his subscriber count exploded—thousands, then hundreds of thousands, then a million. The comments poured in. Strangers from all over telling him he mattered.
When I showed him, his eyes lit up. “But I’m dying,” he said.
“You’re not dead yet,” I told him. “And neither is TimBuilds.”
We took turns staying with him at the hospital. Filmed him building small projects from bed. Encouraged him. Gave him purpose. The bullies tried to show up with flowers and excuses, but we stopped them cold.
Two More Weeks
Tim didn’t die on Sunday like he planned. The outpouring of support gave him something to hold onto. He kept building, kept talking, kept laughing. He made it two more weeks.
But eventually, even warriors fall. Tim passed on a Tuesday, 3 PM. His last words to me: “Tell them to build something cool for me.”
The Funeral
We expected fifty people. Instead, eight hundred came. Bikers from seven states. Parents. Teachers. Kids who had followed TimBuilds. His casket was covered in Lego flowers and surrounded by model rockets.
And yes, the bullies came. Phones ready. But this wasn’t their stage.
We played the cruel TikTok videos they had made—Tim seizing, vomiting, crying—right on the church screen. Their usernames and laughing emojis visible to everyone.
“These three,” I said to the crowd, “tormented Tim for two years. But Tim still won. While they mocked him, he created. While they bet on his death, he inspired millions. That’s his legacy.”
The kids ran out in shame.
The Legacy
We gave Tim’s mom back the twenty he’d tried to pay us with—framed beside his picture. We also handed her a GoFundMe balance of $500,000 raised in his name, to support her and fund anti-bullying programs.
TimBuilds grew to millions of subscribers. His mom continues the channel, posting videos of other sick kids building, creating, fighting. His story sparked “Tim’s Law” at his school—zero tolerance for bullying kids with illnesses. Even Madison now volunteers at a children’s hospital, building Legos with cancer patients.
And us? We still ride to funerals, but we also ride to hospitals now. Helping kids build, helping them feel strong. All because a dying boy with a fierce heart tried to pay us twenty dollars for protection.
What Tim Won
Tim didn’t get revenge. He got something better. He was remembered as more than “Cancer Boy.” He was remembered as a builder, a creator, an inspiration. At ten years old, he left behind a legacy that will outlive all of us.
His last request echoes in my mind every time we ride:
Build something cool for Tim.
That’s what he wanted. That’s what we do. And because of him, thousands more do the same.
Tim may have died, but TimBuilds will never die. And the bullies? They learned what every biker there already knew—
You don’t mess with a kid fighting for his life.
Not when bikers stand guard.