Sunday

Jordan and I were over at his place, relaxing on the couches, reading. I am in the middle of a fun murder mystery novel, and Jordan was chewing up the latest "Vanity Fair".

It was very peaceful.

Then there was a loud knock at the door, and we both nearly fell off the couch.

"Who is it?" Jordan's voice is much deeper than you would think from looking at him.

"Luka," came the answer, almost as deep but with an accent.

We didn't realize how tense we were until we both sagged with relief. We grinned at each other.

Jordan opened the door, still smiling, but we were both taken aback by the sight of Luka, who was out of breath and clearly stressed. He is usually so stoic in that Eastern European way of his, whatever had him this visibly distressed couldn't be good.

"Luka," Jordan was saying, "come in, you look like hell, what is wrong?"

He held out a folded sheet of paper.

"This just came. I printed it out and got here as fast as I could." He quickly walked by us and practically collapsed on the couch, a trickle of sweat coursing down the side of his face.

I stood closer to Jordan as he opened it up and we both read it. Twice.

Jordan folded it back up and the three of us stared at each other. Our peaceful Sunday had just taken a rather weird and decidedly unpleasant turn.