It was 3:30 in the morning when the knocking started.
Not a polite knock. Not the kind you assume is a mistake. This was deliberate, heavy, and confident, like whoever was outside genuinely believed this was a reasonable hour to interrupt someone’s sleep.
The man in bed rolled over, squinted at the glowing red numbers on his clock, and made an executive decision. Absolutely not. He pulled the blanket higher and shut his eyes.
The knocking came again, louder this time.
His wife stirred. “Aren’t you going to answer that?”
He groaned, swung his legs over the side of the bed, and muttered something about lunatics and poor life choices. Every stair creaked as he went down, barefoot, half-awake, and already irritated. When he opened the door, the smell hit him first—alcohol, stale and unmistakable.
A man stood on the porch, swaying slightly, eyes unfocused, grin too wide.
“Hiya,” the stranger slurred. “Can you give me a push?”
“A push?” the homeowner repeated.
“Yeah. Just a little push.”
“No,” the man snapped. “Get lost. It’s half past three. I was asleep.” He slammed the door without waiting for a reply.
Back upstairs, he relayed the story, expecting validation. Instead, his wife frowned.
“That wasn’t very kind.”
“Oh, come on,” he said. “He was drunk. Probably doesn’t even know where he is.”
She sat up. “Do you remember that night our car died in the rain? On the way to pick up the kids? You knocked on a stranger’s door at midnight. What if he’d told you to get lost?”
“That’s different,” he argued. “We weren’t drunk.”
“It doesn’t matter,” she said calmly. “Someone needed help. You got it. Now someone else needs help.”
He sighed, defeated by logic and marriage in equal measure. With dramatic resignation, he got dressed again and went back downstairs.
The porch was empty.
“Great,” he muttered. “Now he’s wandered off to terrorize someone else.”
He stepped outside and raised his voice. “Hey! Do you still want a push?”
From somewhere in the darkness came a hopeful reply. “Yeah, please!”
“Where are you?” he called, squinting into the yard.
A pause.
“Over here,” the voice said cheerfully. “On the swing.”
Halloween had always been his favorite night of the year. That’s why he answered the door himself instead of letting the kids do it. A small boy stood on the porch holding a plastic pumpkin.
“Trick or treat,” the kid said.
The man smiled. “So what are you supposed to be?”
“A werewolf.”
The man looked him up and down. Jeans. Hoodie. Sneakers. No fangs. No fur. Nothing even remotely wolf-like.
“You’re not wearing a costume,” he said.
The kid nodded seriously. “Yeah. It’s not a full moon yet.”
The man dropped two extra candies into the bucket. Respect deserved recognition.
Across town, another man was having a much worse night.
He crept through a dark house, careful where he stepped, confident he was alone. He unplugged the television, lifted it quietly, and froze when a voice pierced the silence.
“Jesus is gonna get you.”
He stood still, heart pounding. Then he shook his head. Old houses made noise. He took another step.
“Jesus is gonna get you.”
He swallowed. Looked around. Nothing moved.
“What the hell,” he whispered.
He reached for the TV again.
“Jesus is gonna get you.”
“Alright,” he snapped. “That’s enough.”
He spotted the parrot in its cage. “What’s your name, bird?”
“Moses,” the parrot replied.
“Moses?” the man scoffed. “What kind of idiot names a parrot Moses?”
“The same idiot,” the bird said, “who named his Rottweiler Jesus.”
Somewhere in the dark, nails clicked softly against the floor.
The robber decided televisions were overrated.
Back at the house with the swing, the homeowner stood frozen as his eyes adjusted. There it was. A backyard swing set. And sitting on it, gently rocking back and forth, was the drunk stranger.
“You wanted a push?” the homeowner said slowly.
“Yeah,” the man said. “That’d be great.”
He looked around. No car. No hill. No logic. Just a grown man asking for help with playground equipment at an ungodly hour.
Without a word, he stepped forward, placed both hands on the man’s back, and gave the swing a shove.
The stranger grinned like a child.
“Thanks, buddy.”
The homeowner turned and went back inside without another word. Some problems didn’t need solving. They just needed pushing.
Later that week, the same man found himself thinking about the moment more than he expected. Not because it was funny—though it was—but because of how easily he’d dismissed someone who needed help, simply because it was inconvenient.
He didn’t tell his wife that part. He let her enjoy being right.
On Halloween night, the man who handed out candy told the werewolf story at work the next day. No one believed him. That was fine. The kid knew. And sometimes that was enough.
As for the parrot, it continued its nightly warnings, and the Rottweiler remained very patient.
Some nights are loud. Some are strange. Some just remind you that the world is full of people asking for small things at inconvenient times. A push. A favor. A little patience.
And every once in a while, the right response isn’t common sense or caution.
It’s just stepping outside in the dark, sighing deeply, and helping someone who doesn’t even know why they asked.
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