“The Unrest”
Pete was watching the 6:00 news again, even though he had sworn it off. Too much violence. Too much negativity. Hate and division—those were the only things that ever seemed to make the screen anymore. Pete never considered himself an activist or anything like that, and he wasn’t necessarily on any side. He just preferred to live in peace—live and let live, he always said.
“As we approach MLK Day here in the city, things are looking a little grim,” the anchor reported. “Police are out, protesters are out, and it appears to be a standoff.”
The broadcast cut to earlier footage.
“As we reported this morning,” the anchor continued, “protesters clashed with police when a young child and his mother were struck and injured by a police vehicle on its way to ground zero of the protest. Witnesses say the officer driving ran directly into the crowd, as if to purposely strike them.”
Pete frowned.
“According to sources, the mother had just picked up her son from school and was walking home when the protest overtook them. Cell phone imagery obtained by News Channel 9 is inconclusive, but it clearly shows the vehicle never attempted to stop. A White House spokesperson claims the officer did nothing wrong, which has further enraged protesters. Witnesses, however, remain adamant that the officer was at fault.”
“These protests are popping up all over the country,” Pete thought. Every day.
This was ridiculous.
He decided right then that he had to go join the cause. Monday was MLK Day. Dr. King would be turning in his grave if he could see behavior like this.
Pete took a couple of deep breaths, exhaled, grabbed his coat, and left the house.
It wasn’t long after his arrival that things began to heat up.
A man nearby was screaming—shouting, throwing objects directly at the officers as they passed. One officer broke from the line and, with a single swift motion, swung his baton. The man dropped to the ground.
No one seemed to notice. Or care. Pete couldn’t tell which.
He started toward the fallen man, but the crowd surged, swelling around him like floodwater. The harder Pete fought to go one way, the further back he was pushed, until he was no longer moving at all—only being carried.
Then, suddenly, the crowd passed him by, flowing farther up the block.
Pete turned and looked back.
The man was gone.
Something stirred inside him. Anger. He never really hated cops or anything like that. He always figured they had their job, and he had his. But tonight, the anger was strong—unfamiliar.
He wanted to hurt one.
Pete tried to push his way back toward where he had last seen the man fall. Again, the crowd resisted him, shoving him farther from his goal.
Then—
Bang.
The sound was unmistakable. A single gunshot.
Pete turned toward the noise. There, on the sidewalk, lay an officer in a growing pool of blood. No one was helping.
Pete made it to the emergency room doors, his heart pounding, his legs trembling. A man stood just inside the entrance—maybe five foot six, a Black man in a well-tailored suit.
Pete froze.
He recognized him immediately.
Martin Luther King Jr.
How? Pete wondered.
The man met his eyes and smiled—a warm, steady smile that wrapped around him completely.
The officer stirred, just for a moment. His eyes opened, and he seemed to see it too. He said nothing, but the look on his face told the truth.
Pete blinked.
The man was gone.
The strain became too much. Pete collapsed at the doorway, his already frail heart giving out.
“That was twenty years ago,” James Hartford said, standing before the crowd.
“That man saved my life.”
He paused, scanning the college auditorium.
“Did he act alone? I don’t know what really happened after the shot that night. But I do know this—Pete carried me on his back to that hospital. And I was given a second chance.”
James straightened.
“And that’s why I’m here today. To pass on a message of peace to you—so you can pass it on to someone else.”