Three bikers refused to leave my dying baby’s room, singing until their fingers bled and she finally took her last breath. They never stopped. Not when their voices cracked. Not when their fingers were raw and bleeding from the guitar strings. Not when the nurses begged them to take a break. They kept singing because my eighteen-month-old daughter, Lily, would scream in absolute terror the second the music stopped. My name is Sarah Martinez. My daughter was born with a brain tumor the size of a