Phillip Henry is dreaming his favorite dream.
He’s retired, sitting in his living room, watching television when the doorbell rings. He tries to ignore it, sinking further into his favorite chair and trying to concentrate on the infomercial for denture cream so strong it can also be used to tile your kitchen floor. The doorbell rings again, and again, and again and again until finally he decides whoever it is isn’t going away.
He turns off his television, gets out of his chair, and goes to the front door. Standing on his stoop are two men in dark suits, wearing dark sunglasses, waiting stoically for the door to open. Phillip tightens his bathrobe and opens the door.
“Agent Henry, the United States Government requires your help on an urgent matter.” No introduction, no preliminary small talk. “It is a matter of National Security, and the President himself has requested your involvement.”
The two men stand there expectantly, waiting for him to answer.
Phillip straightens, looks at both men, and nods once.
“No,” he says.
He shuts the door, locks it, and goes back to his chair, smiling as turns on the television and turns up the sound to drown out the urgent ringing of the doorbell.