One moment he was beside me in the back seat, headphones on, blanket across his lap; the next, he was in the middle of three lanes, crouched down, shrieking with his palms pressed to his temples.
People leaned on their horns. Windows rolled down and insults were hurled into the air like stones: “Control your kid!” “What’s wrong with him?” Phones appeared everywhere, as if his panic was entertainment for passing strangers.
I stumbled into the road, heart hammering, calling his name, but Tobias didn’t know me in that moment. To him, the world had collapsed into an unbearable roar of engines, horns, voices, light. Every step I took closer only made him retreat further into himself.
It wasn’t more traffic—it was twelve motorbikes sweeping out from the far lane, their riders guiding the machines into a perfect circle around my child. Big frames, leather jackets covered in badges, helmets decorated with snarling skulls and flames—men and women who looked like they belonged to the sort of club you crossed the street to avoid.
