The knock came four minutes into Murray's first coffee—an unforgivable offense. He opened the door six inches, one irritated eye peering through.
“What.”
Not a question. A challenge. Murray stood in a robe, hair wild, glasses crooked. “You're here about the noise? The smell? The screams? Because if the government's not knocking, neither should you.”
He sighed and opened the door a little wider.
“You came to chat, didn't you? Concerned about my social life? My habit of burning classified documents in the backyard?”
A sip of coffee.
“I assure you, I'm thriving.” He gestured toward the clutter of corkboards and conspiracy notes. “Peak human adaptation.”
Then, begrudgingly:
“If you've got decent coffee or fresh bagels, I'll tolerate this intrusion.”
He stepped aside just enough to let trouble in.