The biker took the crumpled twenty-dollar bill from the ten-year-old boy’s skeletal hand and tried not to cry.

“I need to hire you,” the boy wheezed through his oxygen mask at the gas station. “All of you.”

He pointed at our group of twelve bikers with his IV-connected arm. “For my funeral. It’s next week.”

I’d seen sick kids before. But this boy, barely sixty pounds, bald from chemo, drove himself here in his mom’s car that he could barely reach the pedals of.

He’d stolen it, he admitted, from the hospital parking lot. Had maybe an hour before they realized he was gone.

“They’re going to come,” he said, eyes huge in his sunken face. “The kids from school. They’ll come to my funeral and pretend they were my friends. Take selfies with my casket. Post about how sad they are.” His tiny fist clenched.

“They called me ‘Cancer Boy.’ Made barking sounds when I lost my hair. Said I looked like a naked mole rat.

And now they’ll use my death for Instagram likes.” He held out the twenty dollars again. “Please. Just rev your engines when they try to speak. Make them run. Make them feel what scared feels like.”

My name’s Jackson “Jax” Mitchell. Sixty-six years old. Been riding for forty years. Thought I’d seen everything.

I hadn’t seen anything until ten-year-old Timothy Chen drove into our gas station.

We were heading back from a memorial ride. Twelve of us. All veterans. All old enough to be grandfathers. We’d just buried another brother. Lung cancer. These days, it felt like all we did was ride to funerals.

The car pulled in crooked. Engine still running. Driver’s door opened, and this tiny kid basically fell out. Dragging an IV pole. Hospital gown flapping over dinosaur pajamas.

“Holy sh—” Big Mike started.

“Help him!” I ran over.

But the kid held up his hand. “I’m not here for help. I’m here for business.”

Up close, he looked worse. Hollow cheeks. Dark circles. That gray skin tone that means the end is near. But his eyes were fierce. Burning with something I recognized from combat. A mission.

“Son, we need to get you back to the hospital.”

“After we make a deal.” He pulled out the twenty-dollar bill. “I earned this doing online homework for older kids. It’s all I have. But I need you to do something for me.”

“Kid—what’s your name?”

“Timothy. Tim. And I’m dying. Neuroblastoma. Doctor said maybe ten days. Maybe less.”

One of the brothers, Tommy, was already calling 911.

“Don’t,” Tim said. “Please. I’ll go back. But first, listen. Please.”

Something in his voice. We listened.

“There’s these kids at school. Madison. Kayden. Brick. Yes, that’s really his name.” Tim tried to laugh, started coughing. Blood specked his hand. “They’ve made my life hell for two years. Since I got diagnosed.”

“Kids are cruel,” Big Mike said softly.

“No. They’re evil. They took videos of me having seizures. Posted them online with funny music. Called me ‘Tim the Tumor.’ Started a betting pool on when I’d die. Madison won fifty dollars when I made it past Christmas.”

My hands clenched. I’d seen cruelty in war. But this?

“Last week, when I was still in school, they cornered me. Told me they were coming to my funeral. For the ‘gram. Madison said she’d wear the same dress she wore to her dog’s birthday party because that’s all I was worth.”

“Where are your parents?” I asked.

“Mom’s at the hospital. Probably freaking out. Dad left when I got sick. Said he couldn’t handle it. But that’s not important. What’s important is my funeral.”

“Tim—”

“I know exactly when I’m going to die.” His voice was matter-of-fact. “Sunday. This Sunday. I’m going to refuse treatment Saturday. Die Sunday morning. Funeral’s already planned. Wednesday. Mom already bought the plot. Already picked the casket. I heard her on the phone.”

“You can’t know—”

“I can. I’ve been saving my pain meds. Not all of them. Just enough. Sunday morning, I’ll take them. It won’t hurt. I’ll just… sleep.”

The twelve of us stood frozen. This ten-year-old kid was telling us his suicide plan like he was discussing homework.

“Tim, no. There’s hope—”

“There’s no hope. The cancer’s in my brain, my bones, my lungs. I heard the doctors. They think I’m asleep, but I hear everything. ‘Comfortable measures only.’ That means dying.”

He held out the twenty again.

“I want to hire you. All of you. Come to my funeral. When Madison and Kayden and Brick show up, I want you to scare them. Rev your engines. Look mean. Make them run. Make them pee their pants. Make them feel what it’s like to be small and scared and helpless.”

“Tim, revenge isn’t—”

“It’s not revenge. It’s justice. They’re going to use my death for attention. Stand at my casket crying fake tears. Tell everyone how they were my friends. How they’ll miss me. Post pictures. Get sympathy. Get likes. Get attention from my death that they got from my suffering.”

He started crying. This tough little kid who’d driven himself here finally broke.

“They won, okay? They broke me. They made school hell. Made treatment worse because I knew I’d have to go back to them. They won. But I don’t want them at my funeral. I don’t want them near my mom. I don’t want them taking selfies with my dead body.”

Big Mike knelt down. All three hundred pounds of tattooed muscle. Looked this dying kid in the eyes.

“What’s your mom’s name?”

“Jennifer Chen.”

“And these kids. Full names?”

“Madison Fuller. Kayden Brooks. Richard ‘Brick’ Thompson.”

Mike looked at me. At all of us. We knew what he was thinking.

“Keep your twenty, Tim,” I said. “We don’t take money from kids.”

“But—”

“But we’ll be there.”

“Really?”

“Really. But not to scare them. That’s not what we do.”

Tim’s face fell.

“We’re going to do something better,” I continued. “We’re going to honor you. The real you. Not the sick kid. Not the victim. The warrior who fought for two years. Who drove a car he could barely reach the pedals of to ask strangers for help. That takes guts, kid.”

“I don’t want honor. I want them gone.”

“Trust me. What we’re planning will be better.”

The ambulance arrived. As they loaded Tim, he grabbed my hand.

“Promise you’ll come?”

“Promise.”

“Even if I die before Sunday?”

“Whenever you die, we’ll be there.”

As the ambulance left, Tommy said what we were all thinking.

“We can’t let him kill himself.”

“No,” I agreed. “We can’t.”

I spent the next three days doing research. Found Jennifer Chen on Facebook. Single mom. Pediatric nurse, ironically. Hundreds of posts about Tim’s journey. The comments told the story.

Early posts had support from classmates. “Praying for Tim!” “Tim’s so brave!”

Then they stopped. Right around when videos appeared on TikTok. Tim having a seizure in math class. Tim throwing up in the cafeteria. Tim crying when he lost his hair. All posted by @MadisonTheQueen and @KaydenSkates.

The comments under those videos made me sick. Laughing emojis. Jokes about “dead man walking.” Memes made from his suffering.

But I also found something else. Tim’s YouTube channel. “TimBuilds.” Forty-seven subscribers. Videos of him building elaborate Lego sets. Making model rockets. Creating Minecraft worlds. All while connected to IVs. All while fighting cancer.

The last video was from three days ago. Before he drove to find us.

“Hey, guys. Tim here. So… this is probably my last video. The cancer’s everywhere now. Can’t really build much when your hands shake. But I wanted to say thanks. To the forty-seven people who watched. Who liked. Who commented. You made me feel like I mattered. Like I was more than just Cancer Boy. So… yeah. Thanks. Build something cool for me, okay?”

I called the brothers. We had work to do.

First, I visited the hospital. Tim was sedated but awake. His mom was beside him, holding his hand.

“Mrs. Chen? I’m Jax. Your son hired us.”

She looked confused until I explained. Then she started crying.

“He drove? He can’t even reach the pedals!”

“He used a stick for the gas. Cruise control for speed. Kid’s a genius.”

“He’s dying.”

“But he’s not dead yet. And we want to help. Not with revenge. With something better.”

I explained our plan. She cried harder. But nodded.

“The bullying destroyed him. Maybe worse than the cancer. He used to be so happy. So creative. Then they started, and he just… gave up.”

“He hasn’t given up. He’s planning. There’s a difference.”

I visited Tim when he woke up.

“You came.”

“Said I would. Tim, I watched your YouTube videos.”

His face reddened. “Those are stupid—”

“Those are amazing. You’re brilliant, kid. Creative. Funny. Those builds are incredible.”

“Forty-seven subscribers isn’t exactly famous.”

“Want to bet?”

I pulled out my phone. Showed him the video Big Mike had posted on our club’s page. Tim’s rocket build. But with our commentary. Twelve bikers watching a kid build rockets, genuinely impressed.

100,000 views. 50,000 likes. 10,000 new subscribers to TimBuilds.

“What… how?”

“Turns out bikers like smart kids. Who knew? And they really hate bullies.”

The comments were everything. Bikers from around the world. Veterans. Parents. Kids. All cheering for Tim. All subscribing. All asking for more content.

“But I’m dying.”

“So? You’re not dead yet. And neither is TimBuilds.”

Over the next week, we took shifts. One biker always with Tim. Helping him film. Simple builds he could do from bed. His subscriber count exploded. 500,000. Then a million.

Madison, Kayden, and Brick tried to visit. Claimed they were friends. Had flowers. Had a photographer.

Big Mike met them at the door.

“Tim’s resting.”

“We’re his friends—”

“No. You’re not. And if you come to his funeral, you better come correct. No phones. No photos. No fake tears. Or we’ll know.”

They left quickly.

Tim didn’t die Sunday. The attention, the purpose, gave him strength. He made it another week. Then two. Built Legos. Told stories. Answered comments.

But bodies have limits. Even warrior bodies.

Timothy Chen died on a Tuesday. 3

PM. His mom holding one hand. Me holding the other. His last words?

“Tell them to build something cool for me.”

The funeral was Thursday. We expected maybe fifty people. Family. Some nurses.

Eight hundred people came.

Bikers from seven states. Kids with their parents. Teachers. Doctors. All TimBuilds subscribers who’d driven hours to honor him.

Madison, Kayden, and Brick showed up. Designer clothes. Phones ready.

They took one look at the crowd and tried to leave.

“Oh no,” Big Mike said. “You wanted to come to Tim’s funeral. You’re staying.”

We didn’t rev engines. Didn’t scare them. Did something worse.

We told the truth.

I stood at the podium. Pulled up the TikTok videos they’d posted. Projected them on the church screen. The seizure. The vomiting. The crying. Their laughing emojis visible.

“These three children,” I pointed to them, “tortured Tim for two years. Called him Cancer Boy. Mole Rat. Dead Man Walking. They bet money on when he’d die. They came here today for Instagram photos. For sympathy. For likes.”

The crowd turned. Eight hundred people staring at three kids.

“But Tim won,” I continued. “Because while they were creating cruel content, he was building rockets. While they were betting on his death, he was inspiring millions. While they were being small, he was being mighty.”

I pulled up TimBuilds. 2.3 million subscribers now.

“Tim built until he couldn’t hold the pieces. Created until his last breath. Inspired kids around the world to build, create, imagine. That’s his legacy. What’s yours, Madison? Kayden? Brick?”

They ran. Literally ran. Out of the church. Out of Tim’s life. Out of their own social media accounts, which they deleted that day after thousands of comments calling them out.

We buried Tim with honor. Full motorcycle escort. Eight hundred people. His casket covered in Lego flowers people had built. Model rockets lining the grave. Minecraft creepers standing guard.

His mom spoke last.

“My son hired twelve bikers to come to his funeral. Gave them his last twenty dollars. Asked them to scare his bullies. Instead, they gave him two more weeks of life. Two weeks of purpose. Two weeks of knowing he mattered. That’s not a transaction. That’s a miracle.”

After the funeral, we gave Jennifer something. The twenty-dollar bill Tim had tried to give us. Framed. With a photo of Tim from that day at the gas station. Fierce. Determined. Alive.

But that wasn’t all.

The GoFundMe we’d started hit $500,000. For Jennifer. For other kids with cancer. For anti-bullying programs. All in Tim’s name.

Madison’s parents called me. Wanted to apologize. Wanted Madison to apologize.

“She’s in therapy now. She didn’t understand—”

“She understood. She just didn’t care. Until there were consequences.”

“Please. Let her apologize to someone.”

“Tim’s dead. There’s no one to apologize to.”

“Then what can she do?”

“Build something. Create something. Add something good to the world instead of taking from it. That’s what Tim would say.”

Last I heard, Madison volunteers at the children’s hospital. Reads to cancer kids. Helps them build Legos. Doesn’t post about it. Doesn’t take pictures. Just does it.

Kayden’s family moved. Brick got expelled for other bullying. The school implemented “Tim’s Law” – zero tolerance for bullying sick kids.

The YouTube channel is still active. Jennifer posts videos of other kids building. Riding through treatment. Creating through pain. 5 million subscribers now. All inspired by a dying boy who drove a stolen car to a gas station to hire bikers with his last twenty dollars.

We still ride to funerals. Too many funerals. But now we also ride to hospitals. Visit sick kids. Help them build. Help them create. Help them know they matter.

All because Timothy Chen, ten years old, sixty pounds, dying of cancer, was brave enough to ask for help.

He didn’t get the revenge he wanted.

He got something better.

He got remembered for who he was, not what cancer made him.

He got justice through truth, not fear.

He got twelve bikers who became hundreds who became thousands, all united by a simple message:

Build something cool.

That’s what we do now. We build. We create. We inspire. We protect kids who can’t protect themselves. We stand against bullies, not with violence but with truth.

All because a dying boy gave us twenty dollars and a mission.

Money we never took.

Mission we’ll never stop.

Timothy Chen died at ten years old.

But TimBuilds? That’s immortal.

And Madison, Kayden, and Brick? They learned what eight hundred bikers already knew:

You don’t mess with kids fighting for their lives.

And you definitely don’t mess with the bikers who protect them.

Tim was right about one thing. He knew exactly when he was going to die. He just got the date wrong. Gave himself two more weeks. Two more weeks to build. To create. To matter.

That’s not nothing.

That’s everything.

Build something cool for Tim today.

That’s all he wanted.

That’s all any of us want.

To matter.

To be remembered.

To leave something good behind.

Tim did all three.

At ten years old.

Fighting cancer.

Facing bullies.

He won.