The light coming from the open door seemed to create a spotlight around my mom and Papa. Papa looked up at the person, squinting in the intense light. He didn’t move a muscle, and my mom was crying.

“What is it you want from us?” he asked quietly, almost pleadingly.

Another boot appeared, and they both slowly started stepping down, creating a soft clunking sound with each movement. Soon, a man was standing in our cramped cellar, with several others following him.

He was wearing a dirty shirt and cargo pants. Some sort of necklace hung around his neck, tucked underneath his shirt. Dirt was smeared on his forehead and cheeks, and his brown hair was unkempt and matted. “We’re here to help.”

A small radio, hung from his belt. He pulled it away after hearing a voice say something I couldn’t hear, and replied, “There are survivors.”

The fuzzy voice said something in reply, and the man murmured a response.

Papa must’ve heard his words, for he was the first to move.