All day I had been nervous. Frightened. The whole eastern section of the city remained dark behind locked doors. The uniforms were going street-to-street and door-to-door. Fists pounding. Glass shattering. People crying. Shouting. Intermittent gunshot. The echoes of it all could be heard bouncing from building to building throughout the streets. They had been here earlier tromping through my house unimpeded by anything resembling decency or compassion. They had found nothing and no one, of course, for I had little and lived alone.

I was picking up the scattered bits of broken china left in their wake when there came a tentative knocking on my door. I turned off the lamp and went to the window in hopes of seeing, while remaining unseen, who was there before I committed myself to whatever lay outside. It was dark on my stoop and I was, I admit it, apprehensive. No. Not apprehensive. Afraid. Very afraid.

I could just make out two huddled individuals. They were looking up at the door as though beseeching not a slab of wood but some unknown deity with the power to help. I drew away from the window, unsure of myself. Maybe they hadn’t seen me and would go away. The risk was too great. What if the uniforms came back? What if, this time, they took my life rather than my belongings? I would be still and maybe they would go away.

But no. The soft, desperate pounding became more rapid and slightly louder. I was torn and began to sweat. “Please! Go away,” I whispered silently to no one other than myself. I began biting the nails on my right hand and shifting my weight from one foot to the other in my indecision.

I moved to the window once again and peeked between the edges of the lace curtains. The two figures were still there, one taller than the other. They were holding each other tightly and looked from the door to the intersection between the buildings across the street then rapidly back to the door again where they continued to knock. I followed their gaze. There was nothing to see, but I could hear it. Faintly, at first.

There was more shouting out there, growing louder by the second. Police dogs barked excitedly. Of a sudden, the uniforms came into view rounding the far corner, their jackboots rapidly pounding the pavement, indiscriminately splashing through puddles turned golden by the street lamps, the dogs straining on leashes before them.

I swallowed hard and looked down at my hands as though they belonged to some alien. But I knew they didn’t. I was human. Whatever else happened, I was human. And humans must sometimes do things in spite of the consequences. In spite of their fear.

I reached up and threw the bolt with one of my human hands and opened the door with the other. I put a finger to my lips, quickly drew them inside, and closed the door.

– RLM Cooper

Author’s Note: “Sometimes You Must” is a very short story that speaks to the humanity (or, sometimes, the lack thereof) in all of us.