The biker came across the boy in the hospital parking garage just after midnight. The child was clutching a bottle of his mother’s sleeping pills, hiding behind a concrete pillar like a secret no one should see.
He couldn’t have been more than eleven—bald from chemotherapy, his small frame wasted down to skin and bones. He looked up with eyes already emptied of hope and asked softly if I knew how many pills it would take. “I’m forty-three pounds,” he murmured. “I tried to calculate it, but I’m not sure.”
I had stopped because I thought I was checking on a homeless person. Instead, I’d stumbled onto a child trying to end his life.
He stared at my leather vest, my tattoos, my weathered face—and instead of looking frightened, he seemed relieved.
“You look like somebody who’s killed people,” he whispered. “In movies, bikers know about death.”
Then his shaking hands brought out a ziplock bag stuffed with Pokémon cards.
“My dad said these are worth eight hundred dollars,” he told me. “If I give them to you, will you make sure I don’t wake up? I can’t take the treatments anymore. I can’t. But I’m scared I’ll mess it up and just make everything worse.”
My name’s Tommy “Ghost” Brennan. I’m sixty-six. Rode with the Devil’s Prophets Motorcycle Club for thirty-eight years. A Vietnam veteran who has seen men die every way imaginable.
But I’d never before watched a child try to hire someone to help them die.
It was midnight at St. Catherine’s Hospital. I’d been visiting my brother Jake—lung cancer, likely Agent Orange. The VA still won’t admit it. I had stepped outside for a smoke.
There the boy was, perched behind a pillar on level three, in Ninja Turtle pajamas and a hospital bracelet, counting pills into his small palm.
“Twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five…”
“Hey there, buddy,” I said.
He startled, the pills scattering across the concrete, and scrambled to gather them up, tears spilling down his cheeks.
“Please don’t tell anyone. Please. I’ll give you anything.”
That’s when he made the offer—the Pokémon cards for my help.
I lowered myself onto the cold concrete beside him, my knees aching. Everything in me ached these days.
“What’s your name, son?”
“Ethan. Ethan Marsh.”
“I’m Tommy. Why are you out here counting pills, Ethan?”
His face crumpled. “I have AML—acute myeloid leukemia. Third relapse. They want to try another bone marrow transplant. The last one nearly killed me. Four months of hell. Couldn’t walk. Couldn’t eat. Vomited blood. And it didn’t work.”
“Where’s your mom?”
“Asleep in my room. She hasn’t left the hospital in two weeks. Dad works three jobs to pay for the treatments. I haven’t seen him in five days.”
“And you think this is the answer?” I gestured at the pills.
“I’m dying anyway. I heard the doctor tell Mom when they thought I was asleep. Twenty percent chance this transplant works. Twenty percent chance I live another six months. But those six months will be hell. I’ve already done hell. I can’t do it again.”
An eleven-year-old talking about hell like a veteran. Because he’d lived it.
“The Pokémon cards,” he added. “I collected them before I got sick. Some are really rare. Charizard first edition. Worth four hundred just for that one. You could sell them.”
“I don’t want your cards, Ethan.”
“Then what do you want? I don’t have money. I have a PlayStation at home but—”
“I want you to tell me about the cards.”
He blinked. “What?”
“Tell me about Pokémon. I don’t know anything about it.”
So, for the next hour, sitting on that garage floor, Ethan explained Pokémon to a sixty-six-year-old biker.
Every character. Every evolution. Every battle he’d fought before cancer took over his life.
“I was regional champion,” he said with a flicker of pride. “Youngest ever in the state. I was going to nationals. Then I got sick.”
“How long you been fighting?”
“Three years. Since I was eight. More time in hospitals than at home. Missed third, fourth, fifth grade. Kids at school don’t even remember me.”
“But you remember Pokémon.”
“It’s the only thing that stayed the same. Everything else changed. My hair fell out three times. Grew back twice. Mom aged ten years. Dad started drinking. My little sister had to live with Grandma. But Pokémon stayed the same. Pikachu’s still Pikachu.”
I understood. When I came back from Vietnam, nothing made sense. The world had moved on. But motorcycles stayed the same. Two wheels. Engine. Freedom. Constants in chaos.
“Show me your best card.”
He pulled out the Charizard. Perfect condition, in a protective case.
“I pulled this the day before I was diagnosed,” he said. “Mom was mad I spent my allowance. Said it was wasteful. Now she cries when she sees them. Says they remind her of before.”
“Before you were sick?”
“Before I was a burden.”
The word hit me like a punch.
“You’re not a burden.”
“I cost more than our house. Dad’s boss told him to ‘let nature take its course’ so he wouldn’t miss more work. Mom hasn’t smiled in two years. My sister’s seven now. She doesn’t remember me healthy. Just the sick brother who ruined everything.”
“That’s not—”
“It’s true. Eight hundred thousand in bills. Insurance stopped paying. Dad sold his truck. Mom sold her wedding ring. Grandpa came out of retirement at seventy-three. All for twenty percent.”
He reached for the pills again.
“Ethan, let me tell you something.”
“About death? You’ve killed people, right? In the war?”
“Yeah. And it haunts me every day.”
“But they were enemies.”
“They were kids. Some not much older than you. And every life I took left a hole in me that never filled back up.”
“But I want to die. That’s different.”
“No, son. You don’t want to die. You want the pain to stop. There’s a difference.”
“What’s the difference when the result is the same?”
Smart kid. Too smart.
“Can I tell you a story?”
He shrugged.
“When I came back from Vietnam, I was twenty. Bullet in my hip. Shrapnel in my back. Pain every day. But worse than the pain were the memories. Things I’d seen. Things I’d done. I wanted to die too.”
“Did you try?”
“Three times. Pills. A gun. A motorcycle crash I tried to cause.”
“Why didn’t it work?”
“My buddy Jake found me. The gun jammed. The crash—hit a tree at ninety. Should’ve died. Woke up three days later. Doctor called it a miracle.”
“So you’re bad at dying too?”
I laughed. Dark humor from an eleven-year-old.
“No, I was good at it. Just turned out life was stronger. And you know what?”
“What?”
“I’m glad. Because if I’d succeeded, I’d have missed forty-six years of life. Meeting my wife. Having my daughter. Holding my grandson. Ten thousand sunsets. There was pain. Always pain. But joy too.”
“I don’t have joy anymore.”
“When you were explaining Pokémon, your eyes lit up.”
“That’s not joy. That’s remembering joy.”
“It’s a start.”
We sat in silence. Then Ethan asked, “Does it really get better?”
“Different. Not always better, but different. And different can be enough.”
“The transplant might kill me.”
“The pills will definitely kill you.”
“At least it would be my choice.”
“You think you don’t have choices now?”
“What choices? Do the transplant or die? That’s not a choice.”
“How about this: Do the transplant or don’t. Live with whatever comes. Fight or don’t fight. But make the choice alive, not dead.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“You can always die later. Death’s patient. But life? Life’s happening right now. Even here, in this garage, talking to an old biker about Pokémon.”
Ethan stared at the pills. “What would you do? If you were me?”
“I’d make a deal.”
“What kind of deal?”
“Give the transplant one more shot. If it doesn’t work, we’ll have this conversation again. But if it does work, you owe me.”
“Owe you what?”
“A Pokémon battle. You teach me to play, and we battle. Fair and square.”
“You want to learn Pokémon?”
“Why not? I’m retired. Got time. And you said you were regional champion. Be nice to learn from the best.”
For the first time, Ethan smiled. Small, but real.
“You’d really learn?”
“I’ll even buy my own cards. But you have to help me pick them. Can’t have the champion setting me up with weak ones.”
“That would take months to learn properly.”
“Good thing you’ll need months to recover from the transplant.”
He saw what I was doing. Gave him a reason. A timeline. A purpose beyond survival.
“What if I die during transplant?”
“Then I’ll speak at your funeral. Tell everyone about the kid who tried to teach an old biker about Pikachu.”
“It’s more than just Pikachu.”
“See? I need help. Can’t learn if you’re not here.”
Ethan counted his pills again. Then, slowly, put them back in the bottle.
“My mom’s going to notice these are gone.”
“We’ll figure that out.”
“You won’t tell her about tonight?”
“On one condition. You give me your word. No more midnight pill counting. You want to quit, you talk to me first.”
“You’d talk me out of it.”
“Maybe. Or maybe I’d just listen. Sometimes that’s enough.”
“Why do you care? You don’t know me.”
“Because forty-six years ago, someone found me with pills. Talked to me instead of judging me. Saved my life. I’m paying it forward.”
We walked back to the hospital. Ethan slipped the pills back into his mom’s purse. I gave him my number.
“Call me. Any time. Day or night.”
“Even during the transplant?”
“Especially then.”
Two weeks later, the transplant began. I visited every day before. Brought Pokémon cards. Ethan laughed at my poor deck choices.
“Ghost, that’s a terrible deck. No strategy.”
“Then fix it.”
We built my deck together. His mom, Patricia, watched and said, “He hasn’t been this engaged in months.”
“Just gave him someone to teach,” I said.
Transplant day, I was there at 5 A.M. with my motorcycle helmet.
“What’s that for?” Ethan asked.
“When you get out, you’re getting your first ride. Hospital to home. Wind in your face. Freedom.”
“Mom won’t allow that.”
Patricia saw the hope in his eyes. “We’ll see,” she said.
The transplant was brutal. His body destroyed, rebuilt. Couldn’t eat. Couldn’t walk. The pain unbearable.
I visited every day. We played Pokémon with sanitized cards. He won every time, even when he could barely hold them.
“You’re getting better,” he said one day.
“Good teacher.”
“Ghost?”
“Yeah, kid?”
“I’m glad you found me that night.”
“Me too.”
Week three, infection. ICU five days. When he woke up, I was there.
“Did you practice?” he whispered.
“Every day. Built a new deck. Water types. You’re going down, champion.”
He smiled through cracked lips. “Bring it.”
Week six, his counts rose. Week eight, he walked alone. Week ten, he ate solid food.
Week twelve, he won.
The doctors called it remarkable. Twenty percent chance, and Ethan beat it.
“It’s not over,” they warned. “He could relapse.”
But Ethan was different now. Not cured, but changed.
The day he left the hospital, I was there with my Harley. Patricia didn’t object. Ethan wore my helmet. I drove fifteen miles per hour. He held on tight.
“How’s it feel?” I yelled.
“Like flying!”
Six months later, Ethan was still in remission. Still fighting, but winning. We met weekly for Pokémon battles. I even started winning sometimes.
His sister came home. His dad cut back to two jobs. His mom smiled again. Real smiles.
One day, Ethan handed me the Charizard.
“I can’t take this. It’s worth—”
“It’s worth my life,” he said. “You saved my life. Fair trade.”
“I didn’t save anything. You saved yourself.”
“You gave me a reason to.”
I still carry that card in my wallet. A reminder that sometimes salvation shows up in unexpected forms.
Ethan’s seventeen now. Six years cancer-free. Heading to college. Pre-med. Wants to be a pediatric oncologist.
“I want to be the doctor who doesn’t just treat kids but sees them,” he says.
He still plays Pokémon competitively. Won nationals twice. I’m his unofficial coach, though I barely understand it.
Last week, we sat in the same parking garage. Same pillar.
“Remember?” he asked.
“Every day.”
“I was really going to do it.”
“I know.”
“Why didn’t you call security? Report me?”
“Because you didn’t need to be stopped. You needed to be heard. There’s a difference.”
“I never thanked you properly.”
“You lived. That’s thanks enough.”
“No, Ghost. You didn’t just save my life. You gave me a life worth saving.”
We sat there, a seventeen-year-old cancer survivor and a seventy-two-year-old biker, in the spot where death almost won.
“Ghost?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m going to save kids like you saved me.”
“You already have.”
“How?”
“You taught an old biker to play Pokémon. You gave me purpose when Jake died. When my own pain got bad. You think you were the only one being saved that night?”
He hadn’t known about Jake, how he died two months later. How teaching me Pokémon gave me something to hold onto besides grief.
“We saved each other,” Ethan said.
“That’s usually how it works.”
Now Ethan volunteers at the hospital. Talks to kids going through treatment. Shows them his Pokémon cards, his scars, his life after cancer.
And sometimes, late at night, he calls me.
“Just checking you’re still there,” he says.
“Always, kid. Always.”
Because that’s what we do, those of us who’ve stood at the edge. We reach back for the ones still standing there. We offer our hands, our stories, even our silly card games.
We remind them death is patient.
But life—life is worth the impatience. Worth the pain. Worth the fight.
Even when you’re eleven, dying, and trying to trade Pokémon cards for peace.
Especially then.
The Charizard sits in my wallet. Next to photos of my grandson. My wife. Jake. All the reasons to keep going.
Ethan calls it my trophy.
I call it my reminder.
That sometimes angels wear Ninja Turtle pajamas. Sometimes they’re dying children who teach you how to live. Sometimes they offer you Pokémon cards in exchange for death.
And sometimes, if you’re very lucky, they offer you life instead—even if they don’t know it at the time.